The Jewess of Toledo
by Merrow.in.the.Barrow
Summary: Toledo, Kingdom of Spain, 1482. A young woman escapes the flames of the Spanish Inquisition with but a few possession and a set of simple instructions from her mother: Go to Paris and wait for her at Notre Dame.
1. Prologue

**A/N: I don't own anything, only the OC's. Enjoy the story, dear readers!**

**Prologue**

_**"Angus Dei**_

_**Qui tollis peccata mundi,**_

_**Angus Dei**_

_**Dona nobis pacem."**_

\- _A Catholic liturgical invocation_

_Toledo, Kingdom of Spain, 1482_

Sancha did not wake up that day expecting her life to change. It was a day like any other, and she was comfortable in its lack of remarkability. She went about her morning as usual, paying respects to her parents and doing her chores after breakfast. It was only in the middle of the day, when her mother, Jeanne, burst into her room, did Sancha look up from her needlework and realize something was very wrong.

"Mama?" she started, but her words were drowned out by the look on her mother's face.

"Sancha, hurry." Jeanne, wild-eyed and pale, was carrying an old satchel. "Get your things. We – You need to leave."

The older woman proceeded to pace her daughter's room and pull out clothes, jewelry, and other valuables from various chests and boxes. She thrust them into the bag by hand- and armfuls. Watching her, Sancha abandoned her sewing and leapt to her feet.

"Mama, what's wrong?" she demanded.

Jeanne looked up from the chest at the foot of the bed, and for a moment, Sancha thought her mother was going to be physically ill.

"It's Tavera," she said in a hushed voice. "He's here about the boy…"

Immediately, Sancha contracted her mother's panic. There had been a tragedy in the city recently: The remains of a young boy named Alfonso de la Vega had been found in the forest just outside the city walls. Rumour had it he had been snatched off the streets and spirited away by criminals in broad daylight. There were whispers of foul play, and even of the dreaded ritual of blood libel…

Or so that was what Cardinal Tomas de Tavera thought. And anything the most powerful clergyman in Castile suspected, so too did the general public.

But Sancha was innocent. Her family was innocent. They should have been safe.

"He's at the Ben Jehiel household now. He's going to come here next." Jeanne handed her the satchel, now bloated with clothes and assorted items. "You're going to leave out the window and climb down the trellis – Don't argue with me, Sancha, do as I say. You're going to climb down, run to the main street, and you're going to get out of the city. There's a pilgrimage headed through Toledo – It should be easy enough for you to blend in." She made a point of tapping the back of Sancha's left hand, which was bedecked with three rings of gold and semi-precious stones. "Hide those. And cover your hair. And do _not_ cut through the _judería_. Tavera will have men all over the place."

"Leave?" Sancha's voice cracked. "I have to leave Toledo?"

"You have to leave Castile."

A crushing silence enveloped the two women. Jeanne shook her head, her expression momentarily relaxed by sorrow.

"Times are changing, my dear. There's no room in Spain for people like us anymore."

Tears pricked the back of Sancha's eyes. Ever since she was a child she had felt the tension between her community – the _conversos_, Jewish converts to Christianity – and the rest of Toledo. She knew she was not welcome in certain circles, but she never suspected the animosity would become this bad.

She swallowed down and clutched the straps of her bag. "Where will I find you?"

"Follow the pilgrims." Jeanne walked her daughter to the window. "They are headed for Montmartre, in France. Your father and I will meet you along the way. If we do not find you, wait for us at Notre Dame de Paris – It's the largest cathedral in the city, you can't miss it. Don't stay at Montmartre. For all the moralizing these pilgrims do, they misbehave when left idle in one place. I want you to stay safe."

Outside the window, the sky undulated with dark grey clouds. The wind was warm, but the breeze made Sancha's arms break out in goosebumps. Turning from the open shutters, she asked her mother, "Will you promise to find me?"

She felt like a child in that moment, small and petulant, but it couldn't be helped. Jeanne, with tears in her eyes, couldn't seem to answer, either. All she did was gather her girl up in her arms for a tight and all too short hug.

"I love you, Sancha."

A loud thudding sound bludgeoned the relative quiet in the room. A muffled voice from downstairs cried out, "Tribunal of the Inquisition! Open this door!"

And that was when Jeanne released her child and shooed her out the window.

"Go," she whispered shakily, "and may God protect you."

Sancha did as she was told. Swallowing back her fear, she slung her satchel over her shoulder and climbed down the trellis on quivering legs. When she got down to the street, she resisted the urge to take off instantly. Instead, she pressed her back to the brick wall and peeked around the corner.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her father, Avram, in handcuffs. She bit back a cry as she watched him get dragged from the front door by a guard, his protests and her mother's cries ignored by the monster that presided over the horrible scene.

Cardinal Tomas de Tavera, the Grand Inquisitor himself, sat atop a white horse. Still a relatively young man of thirty, the cleric was adorned in red robes and all the self-righteousness of a man drunk on his own power. He watched Avram and the hysterical Jeanne with a poorly concealed grin and a hard glean in his dark eyes. Behind his horse, a line of men and women stood in chains, flanked by a handful of soldiers. Most of them were stunned into terrified silence, but some were weeping. Tavera didn't notice.

And in a moment's breadth, he was suddenly looking at Sancha. His angular face went red from his chin to the top of his dark, tonsured head.

"You there!" He pointed at her and shouted to his guards, "Bring her here!"

Without a second thought, Sancha ran. She didn't wait to see if Tavera's men would obey, as she knew they would. She didn't look back to see if her parents noticed what happened. She didn't even think about the indecency of hitching up her skirts so she could run unobstructed. The twisted, chaotic streets of Toledo worked to her advantage, and though she heard the footfalls of the soldiers behind her, she didn't risk a glance over her shoulder, lest she fall or get lost. Instead, she leapt over gates, hurried down alleys, squeezed between houses, and prayed to whoever was listening that she would not be caught by the Inquisition.

Thankfully, someone did hear. Just when she though her legs were going to fall off, the footsteps of her pursuers receded, and Sancha was able to do just as her mother told her: Reach the main road without cutting through the _judería_ and join the pilgrimage that was just leaving through the city gates.

It would take her twelve days to reach Paris. And, when neither parent met her along the way, she left the crowds at Montmartre to find Notre Dame Cathedral.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Welcome back, dear reader! Quick FYI: The gargoyles won't be making an appearance in this story... I really can't have them around for certain scenes, and considering the general dislike for them in the fandom, that's what we're going with. Anyway, on with the story...**

**Chapter One**

_**"And your flight into Egypt**_

_**May last your whole life long"**_

_'Flight into Egypt', The Hunchback of Notre Dame_

It was an overcast day in Paris, yet unusually warm for mid-October. High up in the bell towers of Notre Dame, sitting on a balustrade with his legs hanging over the side, Quasimodo watched the grey skyline.

There had been a commotion at the city gates earlier that day. He had been so excited that he immediately rushed down to the street and almost missed the ringing of Terce for his efforts. Sadly, it had been all for nothing. The motely band of travelers that swept through the gates were not the brightly coloured caravans he had been hoping for. Instead, he was greeted by the austere taupes, greys, and browns of a pilgrimage. Disappointed, he had walked back to the cathedral in silence, occasionally forcing a smile at the citizens who greeted him.

It had been months since Esmerelda and Phoebus left the city with the former's troupe. After the incident involving Esmerelda's arrest and the siege on the cathedral, the gypsies saw it better to leave Paris for the spring and summer seasons. With Frollo gone, the city had become a friendlier place to minorities, but news spread fast, and once the king caught wind of the insurrection in Paris, the Romani and their allies were liable to become targets of persecution yet again. And so, a few weeks after their initial victory, Esmerelda and Phoebus had bade Quasimodo a heartfelt goodbye and promised to return to Paris in the winter. Naturally, he had been sad to see his friends leave, but he knew it was for the best.

Still, acceptance did not necessarily mean contentment. As Quasimodo gazed at the city, watching the pilgrimage wind their way to Montmartre, he fought to keep his loneliness at bay. He reminded himself it was still autumn, and for all he knew, Esmerelda and Phoebus could have been on their way at that very moment. All thoughts of their safety and well-being were shoved aside in favour of the bittersweet memories of their time together.

"Soon," he murmured to himself, "we'll make some more memories.

Silence followed his spoken promise. Nevertheless, he was comforted by thoughts of the future and what he would do when his friends returned to Paris.

Quasimodo sat on the balustrade a little while longer, lost in thought, until it was time to ring the bells for the office of Sext. Up in the rafters of the North tower, he grasped the rope for three of the main bells – Jean-Marie, Etienne, and Emmanuel – and pulled down hard.

XXX

Three miles away, at the base of the hill of Montmartre, the tolling of church bells reached the ears of Sancha Bat Avram. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and listened carefully, tempted to tell the other pilgrims to hush. The sombre pealing must have been from the cathedral her mother spoke of, Notre Dame de Paris. She adjusted the veil on her head, patted her satchel to ensure she had everything, and silently stole away from the crowd, walking in the direction of the bells.

As she wound her way through the streets of Paris, Sancha reflected on her journey. She had escaped Toledo and the looming shadow of Tomas de Tavera easily enough. However, the fact that her parents did not meet her along the way induced in her a sickening worry that had prevented her from either sleeping or eating. Visions of her father flashed in her mind, chained up and accused of a terrible crime he did not commit. Thoughts of what became of her mother were even worse, as she doubted Tavera would keep Avram and Jeanne together. There were many times on the pilgrimage where she simply wanted to sit down in the grass and cry until someone came to her aid.

But, that was a childish thought, and she pushed on, telling herself her parents would meet her at the cathedral in Paris.

As she passed a road-side reliquary, she was reminded of the cross her mother wore around her neck and assured herself that if anyone was going to meet her at Notre Dame, it would be her. Jeanne de Beaumont was often called La Cristiana by their community in Toledo. She was a French noblewoman of Catholic birth. Surely, Tomas de Tavera would know that. Surely, it would be enough evidence for him to release her.

If he even did arrest her, Sancha thought to herself. There was no doubt in her mind that Tavera would be more suspicious of her father. Avram was a converso, a Jewish doctor who nominally converted to Christianity when Sancha was five years old. Unlike Jeanne and Sancha, he had lived thirty years openly as a Sephardic Jew. There was no way the Inquisition wouldn't know that about him. For one morbid moment, Sancha wondered if the Catholic Church had somehow found out that her father was still observing shabbat and attending the synagogue in secret up to the day of his arrest.

She shoved that worry away just as the ringing of the bells died down. Sancha cursed under her breath. She was still in the middle of the city, with no cathedral in sight. She would have to ask someone for directions now.

Swallowing down her apprehension, she approached a woman standing by an open door. Only when she got closer did Sancha realize the woman, with her bold gaze and painted face, was a common woman. Her cheeks burned something fierce. In another life, Sancha would have never deigned to even look at such a girl. But, desperate times called for desperate measures, and she disregarded her pride as she approached.

"E-Excuse me," she stammered.

The woman arched an eyebrow at her but said nothing. Sancha cleared her throat.

"T-To where is the… church? Notre Dame?"

The woman's eyebrows pulled together, and Sancha suddenly wanted nothing more than to disappear. Although her own mother was French, the only languages spoken at home were Spanish, Ladino, and Hebrew. Jeanne had taught her daughter enough French to carry a conversation, but Sancha rarely used it. Now, her carelessness was coming back to haunt her in the form of a whore laughing at her.

With a little smirk, the woman pointed down the road and rattled something off in rapid-fire French. Although she showed little regard for Sancha's discomfort, the latter understood the gist: Go down the road and follow the path at the first left.

With a nod, Sancha gave the woman a curt "merci" and walked off. She followed the directions she had been given, keeping an eye out for cutpurses and thieves. She clutched her satchel and kept her head down, praying she was heading the right way. The longer she walked, the more she worried she had been misled

But, when she emerged from the back alleys and into the town square, she was relieved to see the common woman had been truthful in her directions. Before her very eyes, a massive church, with two hulking bell towers, stood proudly in the middle of the city. There was no more doubt in Sancha's mind: This was the cathedral her mother had told her about.

The girl wasted no time in entering the breath-takingly beautiful gothic cathedral. After a few minutes of aimless wandering and gaping, she found the archdeacon and presented him with a half-fictional telling of her situation: She was on a pilgrimage and had been separated from her parents along the way. Would he be so kind as to let her wait at the church until her mother and father came to find her?

The archdeacon, a kindly old man with an aura of genuine religiosity, was more than happy to allow Sancha to stay at the cathedral. However, there was just one condition.

"The dormitories are reserved for the monks and lay brothers," he explained in slow French. "You'll have to sleep in the church itself, perhaps in transept. I'm sorry, my dear, but it's better that way."

Sancha agreed with him. She missed her own bed and her own room back in Toledo. But, if she had to choose between sleeping on a stone floor alone, or surrounded by a number of men, she would choose the former. She thanked the archdeacon as much as she could with her limited French, and after Vespers that night, Sancha found herself alone in a dark, empty cathedral

A thunderstorm rolled into Paris that night. Despite her fatigue, Sancha could find no peace in the church. She lay prone on a straw pallet, a thin blanket covering her legs, staring up at the domed ceiling above her head. Rain slapped at the stained-glass windows, giving the various Biblical character the appearance of mourners, tears streaming down their faces. With each flash of lightning, the stone busts and icons surrounding the young woman lit up, jumping out of the shadows to scare her with their stern and condemning expressions.

Sancha rolled onto her side and shut her eyes, desperate to sleep, but she was too uncomfortable. Her legs ached after nearly two weeks of walking, and thoughts of her parents, her home, and the angry face of Cardinal Tavera plagued her. She almost felt like crying, but what good would that do?

Shivering, the girl sat up and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. The dark abyss of the empty cathedral stared back at her, momentarily alight with the lightning outside. Thunder rumbled overhead, threatening a roar, and Sancha wondered briefly if the sound came from one of the statues around her.

Unwilling to admit she was frightened, she stood up and pulled her blanket around her like a cold weather cloak. Refusing to meet the eyes of the Kings of Israel, Sancha pattered out of the transept and down the aisle, barefooted and bareheaded. She headed for the back of the church, where she had seen a winding staircase that led up to the bell towers. Though she knew there would be gargoyles and grotesques waiting for her up there, it was better than being surrounded by the immobile and life-sized statues of real people in the dark. At least amongst the demons, she could watch the storm until it blew over.

The staircase was pitch black, the torches having been put out earlier in the night. Sancha made her way upwards in the dark, her hand on the cold stone walls, listening to her heavy breaths. She ascended for what felt like an eternity, until she came to a small landing. She followed it, squinting in the dim light, until she came upon another staircase. Faced with the choice to either ascend again, or continued down the corridor into pitch darkness, she opted to climb. What Sancha found on the platform above made her freeze on the last step.

There was a table across from the staircase, framed by a few discarded statues, and a stack of shelves off to her right. A curtain hung haphazardly to conceal the table, and when Sancha pulled it back, it revealed the table was that of a craftsman.

Even in the dim light, Sancha understood she was looking at a diorama of Paris. The replica of Notre Dame was the biggest piece on the table, and it was surrounded by smaller versions of the townhouses, businesses, and even people of the city. Sancha brushed away some wood shavings and sat down on the bench, appreciating the craftsmanship every time lightning darted in from the nearby window. With each flash, she saw a new detail, a new colour, a new character. As her fear receded, she couldn't help but to giggle.

"Amazing," she murmured to herself. "I wonder who…"

She trailed off as she ran a finger over the baker character, the carving so smooth she needn't fear getting a splinter. She assumed this was either the work of an incredibly bored monk or a lay brother with too much time on his hands. Funny that she would find such a charming display in an otherwise austere place of worship, but she was grateful for it. Her amusement was enough to outshine her trepidation, and she gazed out at the storm with a calm heart, suddenly taken with the beauty of the rain and thunderclouds over the dark city.

XXX

Quasimodo wasn't sure what had woken him up. It couldn't have been the storm; he had slept through louder things than a little bit of thunder and lightning. It couldn't have been the pigeons or other creatures that occasionally made their homes in the bell towers; they had all migrated or gone into hibernation. No, it was something different, something ethereal, as if some unseen force had shaken him awake just in time to –

He froze. There was a creak somewhere on the floor below him. Then, another followed.

_Footsteps?_

Slowly, he pushed back his covers and rolled off his palette to peer over the platform upon which he slept. He held his breath as he listened to the rhythmic pattering of someone walking up the stairs. A figure moved in the darkness, and Quasimodo moved back into the shadows, ready to either hide or fight.

Then, a relieved little laugh cut through the gloom. It was high and musical, like the tinkling of decorative bells on a woman's skirt.

"_Increíble,_" the stranger murmured. "_Me pregunto quién_…"

Quasimodo furrowed his brow and peered over the platform again. The intruder – who was now confirmed to be a woman – sat at his worktable, admiring his diorama of Paris and occasionally looking up to watch the storm. She appeared to have a shawl or blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her long hair fell down her back in soft waves. The darkness obscured anything else about her appearance.

As his fight-or-flight instinct receded, Quasimodo was left with a profound sense of confusion. No one ever came up to the bell tower, let alone this late at night. And the presence of the strange girl who spoke a strange language only created more questions. Perhaps she was a pilgrim who got lost on her way to Montmartre?

Quasimodo thought about staying the shadows until she left, but the idea of falling asleep with a stranger in his midst unnerved him. Instead, he quietly lit a candle and made his way down the platform. The creaking of the stairs were drowned out by the thunder that cracked overhead, and by the time he reached the mezzanine, the girl still hadn't noticed him. Left without much choice, Quasimodo gently cleared his throat.

"H-hello?"

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Since the story has already been written, I'll be editing and posting a new chapter every weekend. Until next time, dear readers...**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello, dear reader, and welcome back to this story. Hope you enjoy the chapter. Thank you, as well, to my new review - Any and all comments are welcome!**

**Chapter Two**

_**"What makes a monster,**_

_**And what makes a man?"**_

_'Bells of Notre Dame", The Hunchback of Notre Dame_

Sancha was entranced by the clouds roiling over the city and the buildings obscured by the sheets of rain. Settled at the workman's table, snuggled in a blanket, and away from the eeriness of the main cathedral, the young woman started to feel a sense of peace.

That is, until, she heard someone clear their throat.

"_B-bonsoir?_"

The bench crashed to the floor as she leapt up and spun around. There was a faint glow behind her, the light of a single tallow candle. The firelight threw a monstrous face into relief against the darkness. Hunchbacked and deformed, the creature behind her recoiled at the commotion she made. Sancha's hands flew to her mouth, half covering a shriek, as she backed up into the table and upended half the diorama.

The candlelight flickered as the monster moved off to the side and away from her. The candleholder rattled slightly as he set it down on a nearby box.

"_Attends_," he said, "_s'il vous plait_ –"

Not waiting to hear the rest, Sancha bolted towards the stairs, sped down the landing, and nearly tripped down the spiral staircase more than once. She ran back into the empty church, and only when she curled up in a shivering ball on her palette did she realize she was not actually being chased.

Similarly, she was so caught up in what she thought was happening that she had also abandoned her blanket in the bell tower. She didn't see the "monster" gingerly scoop it up off the floor and hold it out to her retreating form, nor did she see the look of confused hurt settle over his face. Instead, Sancha remained downstairs in the transept, shaking like a frightened kitten, until the solemn tolling of bells filled the void. Matins was now in session.

Sancha stayed hidden in the furthest corner of the transept, not wishing to disturb the archdeacon or the monks at their liturgical office. Now that she was in the company of others, she allowed herself to doze off to the sound of low, melodic chanting.

Eventually, the chanting died away, and the shuffling of feet roused her. She crept to the edge of the devotional altar and peeked around the corner. The monks were silently filing out of the church, and the archdeacon stood by himself at the front of the church, quietly clearing the main altar. When the last monk left, Sancha left her hiding place and approached the archdeacon. She opened her mouth to greet the old man, but her footsteps alerted him to her presence first.

"Good morning, child." He looked up at her with a soft smile. "If you were disturbed by the service, I would suggest either sleeping up in the choir next time or joining us. Sometimes the laymen and their wives come to Matins, especially around feast days. You wouldn't be out of place."

Sancha smiled and bowed her head. "Thank you, Father. But, it is not why I am awake."

The archdeacon furrowed his brow, awaiting an explanation. Sancha glanced over her shoulder, as if she would see the creature from earlier that night standing right behind her. She swallowed down hard and pointed upwards.

"There is… something in the tower," she half whispered.

She tried not to feel embarrassed as the archdeacon's frown deepened.

"The bell tower?" He looked up, as if the answer was painted on the vaulted ceiling. "Do you mean a man?"

"I think…"

"And what business did you have in bell tower so late at night?" The old man picked up his Bible and motioned her to follow him. Sancha moved down the steps and into the aisle, trying to remember her words as they walked.

"Forgive me," she said. "The storm woke me, and I could not sleep. I went to the tower – I only meant to watch the rain. But, then I saw him there… And he was _espantoso*_." She shuddered at the memory of the grotesque face floating in the darkness just over her shoulder. "I became frightened."

The archdeacon gave a small sigh and shook his head. "I don't doubt you were. However, I would venture to guess you scared him just as badly as he scared you."

Sancha looked at him. "Father?"

"The man you encountered was most likely Notre Dame's bell ringer. He's been in the service of this church for twenty years, and he has always resided in the bell tower."

She blinked, suddenly feeling very foolish. Of course, those who tended the cathedral lived within its walls, just as pilgrims and those in need of sanctuary did. Why would it be any different for the man responsible for ringing the bells?

Still, the vision of that face in the shadows brought a chill to Sancha's bones. She was thinking of the words to say so when the archdeacon slowed to a halt at the end of the aisle. He turned towards her with a knowing but gentle look.

"I can imagine why you became frightened of him, and why you felt compelled to speak to me about it," he said. "But I assure you, your fears are unfounded. I would even say there is not a kinder soul in all of Paris than that man. You needn't fear anything within these walls, especially not him."

With that and a gentle "God bless", the archdeacon left her. Sancha stayed rooted to the ground, staring at her feet and turning the clergyman's words over in her mind. The images of the model Parisian houses and Notre Dame – the very ones she knocked over in her panic – came to mind. Her stomach sank as it dawned on her that she had probably walked straight into the bell ringer's home… before causing a commotion, upsetting his workspace, and then taking off without a word.

Sancha crossed her arms over her chest to shield herself from the guilt that suddenly assailed her. She walked back up the alley, thinking of the few words the deformed man said to her before she fled.

_Attends. S'il vous plait._

_Wait. Please._

Sancha knew very well that monsters did not plead. They barged into homes and lives uninvited. They ransacked entire neighborhoods and dragged fathers away from their daughters in chains. In that moment, Sancha realized she had many reasons to be afraid, but the man in the tower – strange as he might look – was not one of them.

Frowning, Sancha stopped by the altar and raised her head. A statue of the crucified Christ met her gaze, and the girl could have sworn He looked disappointed in her. She tightened her arms and turned away from the altar. But, as she slunk back to her palette, she knew that as soon as the sun rose, she would have to go apologize to the bell ringer of Notre Dame.

XXX

The bells needed to be polished, but Quasimodo was dragging his feet. It took him longer than he would've liked to admit to leave the window and get to work. The sun was rising on another day, and there was still no sign of the gypsy caravans. As he rummaged to find a rag, Quasimodo told himself another day past meant another day closer to seeing Esmeralda and Phoebus again. All he needed was a bit of patience.

He was just toying with the idea of going out for a walk after his chores when he came upon the discarded blanket, left by that girl from last night. Frowning, Quasimodo picked up the undyed cloth and gazed down at it in his massive hands. Despite its flimsiness, he could only assume she spent the rest of the night shivering after she fled from him.

After the strange encounter with the girl, he had not been able to sleep much. The look of abject horror on her face kept him awake for most of the night, and the scream she had tried to suppress wasn't a sound he would easily forget. Though he didn't blame the young woman for her reaction, Quasimodo couldn't deny the incident left him feeling similar to how he had felt almost daily a year ago.

With a sigh, he folded up the blanket and set it down on his table, where half of his models were still scattered. Though the city had become a kinder place to him since Frollo's demise, not everyone in Paris was so considerate. Maybe he would save that walk for another day.

After finding a good rag, Quasimodo climbed up the rafters and set to work on the bells, firmly pushing all thoughts of the girl and his friends from his mind. He worked quickly, and was nearly done with the first bell, when he heard a creak from the staircase below. The sound was followed by a timid and heavily accented "Hello?"

Hardly daring to believe it, Quasimodo dropped the rag and peered down through the rafters. The same girl from last night was back, stepping onto the mezzanine and gazing around like a lost pet.

Though he had seen her earlier, it was much easier to make out her features in daylight. Her hair was the colour of chestnuts, matched by a pair of soft brown eyes and fair skin. Her style of dress was as strange as her accent: She wore no veil on her head, and her loose, long-sleeved dress was half hidden by an over-tunic of transparent gauze. Judging by the colour of the dress – a deep burgundy – Quasimodo guessed she was some kind of gentlewoman.

He froze, wondering what she was doing up in the bell tower again and if he should reply. He had half a mind to stay hidden and let her leave on her own. However, he couldn't deny he was curious as to why she was looking for him.

Before he could make up his mind, the rag, which he had flung to the side, slipped off the support beam and plummeted down the tower. It landed on the floor next to a girl with an obnoxious smack, making her jump. Quasimodo bit his lip and nearly turned away, but it was too late – The young woman had looked up, and her gaze locked with his.

He didn't know what he was expecting, but the next words out of her mouth were, "What are you doing there?"

It wasn't asked with any malice or accusation, but the question made him nervous. What _was_ he doing up here?

"I – uh – I'm polishing the – the bells."

The girl blinked up at him. "Oh."

Neither of them spoke. Quasimodo desperately tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to him. He looked away from the girl, who also looked as if she was grasping for her words, until she motioned for him to come down.

"_Por favor_, will you come here? I wish to speak to you."

"O-Okay..."

Quasimodo hopped off the beam and swung down on a nearby rope, as he usually did to descend from the towers. He landed nimbly on his feet, which seemed to surprise the young woman. She held her hands up to her chest and took a step back. She glanced at him, looked up at the rafters, and muttered what sounded like a mild oath. Then, she refocused her attention on him.

He almost wished she didn't. Quasimodo had grown used to showing his face in public and no longer felt the need to hide behind a hood or in the shadows. But, after what happened last night, a measure of his old self-consciousness was back. He wanted nothing more than to turn away from the girl, but he made himself look at her. To his surprise, the young woman regarded him with a calm yet curious expression, her eyes betraying none of the fear she had last night.

That was, until, she started talking. Suddenly averting his gaze, she clasped her hands together and said haltingly, "I… came to this place the night before. I realized – No, I didn't – I didn't realize this is the place of your… I mean, your home – This is your home… yes?"

She gestured to four walls around them. A little apprehensive, Quasimodo nodded.

"Yes, it is," he said softly.

She frowned and absentmindedly began to twist one of the three rings on her fingers. "I see…

Quasimodo patiently listened to the girl falter, trying to pin down her origins. She didn't roll her R's at the back of her mouth like a native French speaker, and she kept lisping on certain words. And the more she struggled, the more limited her vocabulary became. At one point, she gave up trying to explain herself and got to the point of her visit.

"_Ahora_, I mean to tell you this," she muttered, her cheeks nearly as pink as the clouds at dawn. "I am sorry. For last night, I am very, very sorry."

She looked it too. Now Quasimodo understood – She wasn't looking at the floor because she didn't want to see him; it was a symptom of her embarrassment. Her brow was knitted in a troublesome scowl, and her downcast eyes bespoke a genuine sense of regret for what happened. Immediately, his heart felt lighter than it did this morning.

He moved towards the table and grabbed the folded blanket. She raised her eyebrows, as if she was surprised that he bothered to keep it for her.

"It's okay." He held the blanket out for her. "I didn't mean to scare you."

The girl's frown deepened, but she accepted the blanket. "The fault is not yours. It was dark, and I was fearing the storm, and I thought to come to the tower. I never meant to…" She worked her mouth, but no sound came out. She clutched the blanket tightly. Quasimodo could almost see her trying to translate her thoughts, and for a moment, he thought she was going to weep in frustration.

"I'm sorry," she said through gritted teeth. "My French is horrible."

"No, no, it's really not that bad," Quasimodo assured her, offering a smile. "Please don't be shy. Take your time."

The corner of her mouth quirked. "You are kind to a little foreigner like me. I thank you for that."

Quasimodo felt his smile broaden, and his cheeks grew warm. "You're welcome." After a beat, he ventured a guess at her homeland.

"Provençal?"

She shook her head. "_Castellana_. From the Kingdom of Spain."

Quasimodo's eyes widened. This girl was, indeed, a long way from home. He had heard of the kingdoms south of France, but never actually met anyone from the area.

The young woman stepped around the table and cast her gaze out the window. The sun was high over the city now, lighting up the streets and blanketing the houses and shops in soft yellow light.

"I am waiting for my mother and father," she said, her eyes glazing over. "It is why I am here."

Not wanting to startle her, Quasimodo slowly came around the other side of the table and joined her at the window. "Were you travelling with the pilgrimage?"

She shrugged. "Not to start. I… did meet the _peregrinos*_ later, after I… became separated from my mother. It was she who instructed me to come to Notre Dame to meet her."

Now everything made sense. Despite her broken French, Quasimodo could piece together a story in his head: A rich Castilian family travelling abroad, a separation occurring on one of the long roads, and a young woman left stranded between towns before she caught up with the Montmartre pilgrims.

The girl leaned on the sill, her mouth taut and her eyes troubled. Quasimodo resisted the urge to give her a comforting touch on the arm or hand, though he desperately wanted to. She looked as if she needed a hug.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You will see them again, though."

She gave him a grateful smile, and Quasimodo decided he liked that look on her face much better than the one he saw last night. "I pray you are right."

She pushed away from the sill and turned to face him. To his surprise, she tucked the blanket under her arm, held out her skirt, and gave him a little curtsy.

"Forgive me," she said, "but I did not tell you earlier: My name is Sancha."

For a second, Quasimodo only stood there in silence and stared at her bowed head. He had never been shown that much respect before, let alone by a gentlewoman. He wasn't sure how to react at first, but eventually settled on returning her curtsy with a little bow of his own. He bent at an awkward angle, and the neck of his tunic strained against his hunched back, as if to remind him of why the girl got scared of him in the first place. Nevertheless, he smiled up at her.

"I-It's a pleasure to meet you," he said.

"And what are you called?" she asked.

"I'm – My name is… Quasimodo."

Sancha quirked an eyebrow at him, and he immediately wished she hadn't asked. Though she wasn't from the area, it didn't take a linguistic genius to understand what his name meant.

Still, she didn't ask him anything more about it. Instead, she turned back to the window and said, "_Muy bien_…Now that I know you are not angry at me, Quasimodo, can you tell me where it is in this city that I may find something to eat?"

* * *

_***espantoso: **_**hideous**

_***peregrino(s): **_**pilgrims**

**Thank you once again for reading! More on the way...**


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**_"Everything seems pretty,_**

**_Seeing life from the top of the world"_**

_'Top of the World', The Hunchback of Notre Dame_

Sancha spent the rest of the day getting lost in Paris. She wasted the sunlight hours wandering the streets, listening to the citizen chat, barter, and argue. In the morning, she tried to commit the routes to memory, and in the afternoon, she sat to watch the action in the town square, just in front of Notre Dame.

As she watched the people, Sancha wondered briefly if she had any family nearby. Afterall, her mother had been born and raised just outside the city. Jeanne used to tell her daughter about her grandfather, who was a courtier of King Louis XI himself. While he was away, Jeanne often spent time with her mother in Paris.

"And that is where I met your papa," was the line Jeanne would always use to finish the story. And Sancha would always ask, "Will you take me to Paris someday, Mama?"

The reply from her mother was always the same, too: "One day, when you're older, _ma chère_."

Sancha's smile disappeared. The very square she was in was the same place her parents met – A Spanish med student, hiding his religion from the world, and a Catholic Frenchwoman of noble birth. She wondered from which corner of the square her father had first seen her mother. She imagined them stealing away out of the city centre and the town, away from the suspicions of the Church and Jeanne's family. Sancha wished her mother was around to answer her many questions.

It wasn't long before the anxiety over her parents' fate settled over her. Sancha closed her eyes and tried to block it out, only to see the livid face of Tomas de Tavera in the darkness.

Before she could let herself cry, the young woman rose and swiftly walked out of the square. Worrying would not help anything, she told herself. She was safe and far from Tavera and the Inquisition. All she had to do was stay put and wait for her parents.

When the day began to fade, Sancha chose to have her dinner outside, seated on the banks of the Seine River. She quietly munched on a bun and watched the dying sunlight dance off the water. The tranquility was interrupted by the sudden tolling of church bells. Sancha looked up to see the bell towers of Notre Dame downstream, and her thoughts immediately turned to the man therein, whom she had met – properly – today.

Quasimodo was something of a surprise to Sancha. She had ventured up to the bell tower that morning on shaky legs, equal parts guilt-ridden and terrified of facing the same creature that frightened her so badly the night before. She even expected an adverse reaction to her apology – She wasn't sure if she would be so forgiving if she had been in his shoes.

But, he had been cautious around her, careful in his movements and soft in his speech. He was even patient with her while she fumbled through her apology, more so than most people she had encountered since leaving Spain. His gentleness was completely unexpected, and by the time she left the bell tower, Sancha had forgotten her fear of his appearance – which, she decided, wasn't as monstrous as she first thought.

There was no denying that Quasimodo was deformed, and she knew he knew it; his shyness was telling enough. But, his eyes were kind, and his warm demeanour had put her at ease. It was only after visiting him that she realized it had been a long time since she had encountered a friendly face, unusual as it was.

When the ringing faded, Sancha shook herself out of her thoughts and eyed the towers, wondering why the bells had stopped. A moment of complete stillness passed before she leapt off the grass and took off towards the cathedral, her satchel slapping punishingly against her back.

Evening mass had just begun, and she was late.

XXX

The next day, a few hours before Nones, Sancha found herself on the landing of the bell tower, twisting her hands around the handle of her basket. Maybe this was a bad idea, she thought. Maybe she should have just gone back downstairs and waited for her parents in the square.

Still, the idea of spending another minute alone made her sick. She had been away from home for almost two weeks, and no matter where she went, fear and loneliness followed. At least here she had someone to talk to.

The tower had a solemn stillness about it that morning, as if the previously thunderous bells had left a respectful silence in their wake. Gargoyles and grotesques regarded her curiously from the shadows, as if they knew a stranger was in their midst. When she heard a footstep up on the mezzanine level, she hurried down the corridor without a second thought. Without a door to knock on, she decided to announce her presence in Spanish, just to let the bell ringer know who was sneaking around his domain again.

"Good morning!"

There was a crash somewhere up on the platform, as if a piece of furniture had fallen or been knocked over. Sancha winced at the sound, knowing she probably startled the poor man. Her father had always said she spoke too loud for a girl…

But, she couldn't dwell on that memory for long. Quasimodo's misshapen face appeared at the top of the stairs, and his eyes immediately softened when he realized it was her.

"_Sancha? T'es ici?*_"

The girl nodded, and as she resolved to leave her mother tongue at the metaphorical door, she stepped up the first step.

"I'm sorry for scaring you," she said in French. "You are all right?"

Quasimodo nodded. "I-I'm fine, I just… I didn't expect to see you."

Sancha moved her heel back. "If you are busy, I can…"

"No, no, not at all!" Quasimodo cleared his throat and stepped aside, adding in a quieter voice, "I'm not busy right now."

He turned away in embarrassment, and for a moment, Sancha thought he was going to run off on her. Without delay, she climbed the stairs and held up her basket. A slice of bread peeked out from under the handkerchief that covered the top.

"You told me of the baker last morning," she said. "You were right about him. Very good bread, indeed."

Quasimodo glanced at the basket, then up at her, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Glad you liked it."

"Yes… But, too much," Sancha said with a little laugh. "And now I cannot eat all of it." She twisted the handle again, trying to find her confidence. "If you would help me finish, it would make me happy."

The bell ringer's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Of course." She smiled. "If it did not, then why would I say that?"

Her eyes drifted about the bell tower as she murmured half to herself, "I would say we could stay here, but…" Her eyes fell upon the worktable, and although the diorama of Paris had been righted, she couldn't stop herself from wincing. "I feel I should stay away from there" – She pointed – "I've caused enough trouble there already."

"Please, don't worry," Quasimodo told her. "Nothing got broken... It was an accident."

"Still…" Sancha gazed down at her hands, thinking for a moment. "Would you come with me outdoors? The day is lovely."

A beat passed before she looked up again. Quasimodo was silent, his demeanour pensive for some reason. Assuming he was too polite to refuse her suggestion, she was about to discard the idea. But, as she drew breath to say so, he spoke first.

"I'd love to." He turned on his heel and beckoned her. "Follow me."

XXX

Paris looked markedly different from up so high. As they worked their way through basket of bread, Sancha sat with her legs tucked underneath her and one hand on the railing. Though she was comfortable where they were, sitting on one of the flatter parts of the cathedral roof, she wouldn't dare look over the edge.

"You never fear to fall?" she asked her companion.

Quasimodo smiled and shook his head. "I've spent my whole life here; heights don't bother me."

Sancha stopped in mid-bite. "Whole life? In the bell towers?"

"Uh-huh."

"Since you were a child?"

Something flickered in the bell ringer's eyes, something that made Sancha regret asking. As quickly as the emotion came, though, it fled.

"Since I can remember, really." Quasimodo shrugged. "Notre Dame is my home. I can't imagine going anywhere else."

Sancha's heart twisted, wringing out a stream of pity for the poor creature. Briefly, she wondered what kind of life he had lived, what hardships he endured with an appearance like his. As the silence dragged on between them, she took a bite of her bread, only to discover she couldn't taste anything.

"If I lived here," she murmured after a while, "I would never leave. Not with that" – She pointed to the horizon, where the blue sky stretched out to infinity, and the rooftops had the appearance of a jagged mountain range. She could only imagine how beautiful the sky looked at dawn or sundown.

"Do you like it up here?" Quasimodo asked.

"I do." She sighed and put the empty basket aside. "Paris is beautiful; I only wish I could see Toledo from these heights. There are many hills in my city, but not so many towers."

A frown settled into the corners of her mouth. Images of the winding streets of the _judería_ rolled through her mind. She wondered if the place was completely emptied by now. She could almost hear the clinking of manacles over the last words her mother spoke before facilitating her escape from the Inquisition.

_I love you, Sancha…_

"Sancha?"

"Hm?"

She blinked and turned to see Quasimodo watching her. He looked almost a little afraid, and her cheeks burned as she realized she had been staring off into space when he asked her a question.

"_Perdón_," she muttered. "What did you say?"

"Have you heard anything from your parents yet?"

Suppressing a sigh, she shook her head. "I do not believe I will until I meet them here. When we became separated, I…"

Sancha trailed off as a wall went up in her mind. How did she explain the situation without exposing herself as the half-caste daughter of a Jew? How did she translate a complicated and terrifying experience that was difficult enough to describe in her mother tongue? Helpless, she glanced over at Quasimodo, only to see him waiting patiently. His gaze was so soft and unassuming that, had he known Spanish, she might have told him everything right then and there.

Instead, she settled on her backup plan: Give up.

"I don't have the words," she said, her voice hollow. "It is difficult to explain."

"That's okay." He shifted to get a better look at her downcast face. "You're really not half as bad at French as you think you are."

"Even with my terrible accent?"

"I've been able to understand everything you've said so far." She was rewarded with an encouraging smile. "Accent and all."

His good humour was contagious. The dark memories of the too recent past were starting to clear as Sancha broke out into a genuine smile. "Would you believe my mother is French? She was born and raised outside of the city."

Quasimodo raised his eyebrows. "She was? And you never picked up the language?"

"She rarely speaks it. There is no use for French in Toledo," Sancha explained. "We only speak Castilian and Ladino in the city. My mother learned when she married my father, and so that is how we talk to each other."

"What's Ladino?"

"It is a language easier than French," Sancha teased, laughing. "It is a mix of Castilian Spanish and He…."

She trailed off as she realized what she was saying. She clamped her lips shut and cursed herself for letting her guard down. Despite her earlier wish that he knew her mother tongue, she had to remember that no matter what language he spoke, Quasimodo was still a Catholic. One careless admission could easily turn him against her. Though he seemed nice enough, Sancha had previously witnessed seemingly good people twist into something truly ugly when faced with a challenge to their worldview. It was just too risky.

She covered her blunder by furrowing her brow in mock concentration. Her backup plan never failed.

"Ah – I do not know the word," she said. "It is a local language we sometimes speak in Toledo."

It wasn't a complete lie, and Quasimodo seemed willing enough to believe her, but Sancha rushed to change the subject anyway.

"But, Paris has no use for my Spanish." She grabbed the empty basket and held it up. "I do not even have a word for this."

"That's easy," Quasimodo told her, not unkindly. "You call that a basket."

Sancha repeated the word – "_panier_" – and stared at the item.

"Thank you. I hope I can remember it."

"I could write it down for you, if you want," Quasimodo offered.

Sancha set the basket aside and shook her head. "It would be no use. I can't read." She paused for a moment, considering his words. "But, you can?"

"Well, no – I mean, yes, I-I can but, uh…" The young man looked down at his hands and paused, as if gathering his thoughts. "N-Not very well… I'm okay at it."

Despite his modesty, Sancha murmured a mild oath in amazement. The only literate people she knew were her local priest, the rabbi, and her father. Literacy wasn't a skill she would've thought a secluded bell ringer would possess.

"How did you learn?" she asked, almost blushing at the reverence in her voice.

Quasimodo didn't answer right away. He watched the horizon for a moment, and Sancha waited for an answer with bated breath.

"My old master taught me," he said finally.

"Old?" Sancha repeated, remembering the word he used – "_ancien_" – meant "former" and not "elderly". "What happened to your old master?"

"He… He died."

The sun disappeared behind the clouds momentarily, casting shadows over Quasimodo's troubled eyes. Sancha's stomach sank, and she quietly scolded herself for being so nosy.

"Forgive me for asking," she murmured. "That is very sad."

Quasimodo drew a knee up to his chest and kept his eyes on the skyline. "There's nothing to forgive, Sancha. I'm… better off now, I think... All of Paris is..."

Questions rushed through Sancha's mind like a river in springtime, but she dared not give them a voice. Instead, she merely watched her companion as he looked off into the distance, waiting as a host of ill-concealed emotions receded from the surface of his face. The sight of the poor man struggling in silence was distressing, despite Sancha not knowing anything about what past traumas were attached to his old master.

Hesitantly, she reached over and laid a hand on his forearm, which seemed to bring him out of his memories. Quasimodo glanced down at her hand, and then up at her, mouth parted slightly in surprise.

"I am happy you are better off," she said softly. "You deserve that much, at least."

The wind picked up, lightly pushing Quasimodo's bangs out of his face. Sancha held his gaze, determined not to shy away from the twisted flesh and bone that she knew hid a kind soul. When she didn't look away, he returned her smile and placed his hand over hers. His skin was warm and comforting, despite the chill of the early autumn air.

"Thank you, Sancha."

* * *

**_*_****_T'es ici? _: You're here?**

**Thank you once again for reading, my dear reader. Your support means a lot to this humble author and her baby (ie. the story). Until next weekend...**


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**_"Hurry near, another day is dying_**

**_Don't you hear? The winter wind is crying"_**

_'Come to Me', Les Miserables_

Over seven hundred miles away from Notre Dame, Jeanne de Beaumont sat in a cramped and foul-smelling cell in near-complete darkness. Somewhere in the depths of the dungeon, someone was weeping. Jeanne wished she could commiserate, but she was too frightened to cry. Every modicum of energy left in her exhausted body went into ruminating on the fate of her family.

Avram had been separated from her immediately upon their arrival to the jail. After being taken to some other infernal pit, Jeanne had made herself ill imaging the possible tortures her husband was being put through. There was no doubt in her mind that Tomas de Tavera would torment the _conversos_ and Jews before moving onto the likes of her, a fraternizing Christian.

She berated herself for not seeing what would happen sooner. Everyone in Toledo knew of the disappearance of Alfonso de la Vega. This was partly because news always travelled fast in the city, but also because of what little Alfonso was rumoured to be: The natural son of the cardinal himself.

Of course, no one knew what happened to the child, but Jeanne had heard gossip that she initially dismissed as fearmongering: That no matter what unfortunate fate Alfonso had met, Tavera would find a way to take out his grief on the Jews. The biggest rumour amongst the Christian community was that Alfonso had been kidnapped and murdered in a blood libel, a heinous and completely imaginary crime often pinned on Avram's people. Surely, the community whispered, the infidels of Toledo were going to pay for it.

And in seeking vengeance for his lost child, Tavera had separated Jeanne from hers. In the darkness, the distraught mother clasped her hands and prayed that Sancha had made it to Paris unharmed. She hadn't seen her daughter amongst the chained prisoners upon their arrival at the jail, which she chose to believe was a sign that Sancha had escaped the city.

Still, Jeanne thought, her daughter was young, unmarried, and travelling alone. The idea of something happening to her along the way was enough to make Jeanne lightheaded.

Her chains rattled against the stone floor as she stood to peer out the single window of her cell. The bars sliced the full moon in half.

"Please, let her be safe," Jeanne whispered. A single tear escaped her eye and ran a clean track down her dirty cheek. "Do what You will to me, but please, spare my child. Let her find the one who can help her at Notre Dame."

It had been nearly twenty years since Jeanne saw the saviour she spoke of, but if memory served her well, she knew her mother would never pass up a chance to visit the cathedral.

XXX

Marguerite de Savoy had become Lady de Beaumont upon her marriage to one of King Louis's courtiers when she was sixteen. Forty-five years, six children, and one prolonged illness later, she was completely alone. With her husband carried off by the pox, her sons married, and her only daughter run off with that deicidal Castilian, Marguerite wiled her days away by writing letters and attending offices at Notre Dame Cathedral. The latter was the most effective remedy against the daily onslaught of loneliness she experienced.

It was one such occasion when Marguerite decided to attend the office of Matins. She had awoken in the middle of the night and been unable to fall back asleep. And so, she sought comfort amongst the sleepy monastics and the solemn intoning of the archdeacon.

As the office ended, and the clergymen filed out of the church, Marguerite stayed in her pew for further prayer and contemplation. Her mind had already begun to bother her with thoughts of her children, half of whom she would not see for the upcoming feasts of the Nativity and the Epiphany. She prayed for peace, but her treacherous thoughts soon turned to Jeanne, her youngest progeny and the single most unsettling thing out of Marguerite's life.

After her daughter spurned a good betrothal and eloped with a heathen, Lady de Beaumont tried to wash her hands of Jeanne. The little witch had brought scandal upon their house and secured herself a place next to Helen of Troy in the afterlife. Marguerite desperately wished she could hate Jeanne – or better yet, forget her – but after almost two decades since that incident, the mother never stopped worrying about her daughter's soul.

With a sigh, Marguerite rose from the pews and approached the devotional altar of the Virgin that dominated one of the transepts. Gazing up at Mary's benevolent alabaster face, the lady pressed her palms together and silently prayed for mercy.

That was, until, the shadows at her feet moved.

"Merciful heavens!" Marguerite cried.

She leapt back as the creature at the foot of the altar roused from its sleep, limbs thrashing about. For a moment, Marguerite thought a fox had gotten into the church somehow, but when the figure rose up into the light, she saw she was completely wrong; it was a girl.

Standing a head shorter than Marguerite, the latter guessed the young woman was barely a day over eighteen. Her long, light brown hair was tousled, and her wide, frightened eyes were glassy and underscored with shadowy rings. They stared at each other for a moment, until Marguerite broke the silence.

"What on earth are you _doing?_"

Her voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling in the most uncouth manner. The girl blinked, the fear slowly melting off her pale face.

"I… I sleep here."

Marguerite blinked. She wasn't sure what threw her off more: The girl's words or her accent. "I beg your pardon?"

"It is where I sleep," the girl repeated, gesturing to the straw palette behind the altar. Marguerite peered over at it, her mouth moving soundlessly.

"Would you not be more comfortable in your own home, girl?" she demanded, folding her arms across her chest.

The girl glared at her. "I am a pilgrim. I sleep here."

Marguerite immediately decided she hated the girl's accent. "There are inns aplenty in this city. Go there and do not presume to lay about in here with your head uncovered and your feet bare. How dare you presume to treat a church like a public house?"

Marguerite could feel herself growing angrier as she looked at the girl. It couldn't be helped. She had prayed throughout her life for God to cool her temper, but it was all for naught. Truly though, she thought, this woman deserved every bit of what Marguerite gave her.

The stranger's gaze hardened. "The archdeacon says I may stay here."

Marguerite sniffed and straightened her back. "I sincerely doubt that was what he meant when he offered you shelter."

"You know nothing of it," the girl snapped. "There is not usually one person in the church before the sun is rising. I have been sleeping here for a week, but now is the first time I have been woken so early by a screeching bird."

Marguerite could feel her cheeks growing hot. Had this wench been her daughter, she would have struck her already. "You wretched girl, do you have any idea who you're speaking to?"

She never got an answer. Instead, the girl turned away, gathered up her palette and blanket, and marched past the altar. As she brushed by Marguerite, she said, "Continue your prayer. I did not intend to frighten you."

With that, the girl walked off, which only made Marguerite's blood boil. Servants, children, and even men of lower class knew to show respect to her. She was, after all, a noblewoman, and she would be damned if she was going to let a bare-footed floosy talk to her like that.

"A pox on you," she declared shrilly. "You ought to be ashamed… And so should the sow that raised such a brat!"

"_¡Qué de ten por culo!_" the girl shouted without turning around.

Marguerite watched as she disappeared up the bell tower staircase, silently enraged that she couldn't counter an insult she didn't understand.

XXX

Matins had been rung, and Quasimodo had about three more hours until Prime. He rarely went back to sleep after the first office of the day, and that morning was no different. What was different was the sleepy little voice that drifted up from the floor below.

"Quasimodo…?"

He looked up from his worktable to see Sancha's small head peeking up over the edge of the mezzanine. Her eyes were bleary, and her hair was half hidden by the blanket over her shoulders. She stayed on the steps, as if waiting for him to grant her permission to come up. He was surprised to see her there, but not unhappy.

"You're up early," he said as he left the table. He offered her a hand, and she took it with a tired but grateful smile.

"I was hoping you would be awake," she said. "If it was my screaming that woke you, I am sorry for that."

"Screaming?" Quasimodo looked her once over, unable to help himself. "You're not hurt, are you?"

The girl shook her head and pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "No, not hurt. But I'm annoyed. Do you want to know what happened just now?"

They sat down at the worktable, and Sancha explained why she was up at this hour: An angry old parishioner had almost stepped on her in her sleep. The anecdote ended with Sancha evasively telling him she had said something "very bad" to the woman.

"If my mother heard me, that would have ended with a slap and a few _Ave Marias_."

"I don't think you'd deserve that," Quasimodo offered, instantly disliking the thought of Sancha being hit.

"Thank you. I do not feel terribly bad for my words. It felt worse to wake up to someone yelling at me. _Ay_…" She shrugged and covered a yawn. "It is often that my family and neighbors endure this. The shouting, and the pushing, and the curses… Only, my father is not here to protect me now."

Quasimodo frowned. "Why would they do that?"

Silence fell between them. Sancha leaned over, her elbows on her knees, as she hugged herself and stared into the distance. She blinked a few times before answering slowly, "In Toledo, there are people who wish others harm. For hundreds of years, all over Spain, different people have been fighting each other. It is only now the_ situación_ has become dangerous… And my mother and father were found to be on the wrong side."

Questions immediately flooded the bell ringer's mind. He hesitated, feeling as if he was trying to approach a frightened animal without scaring it away. "Is that why you were separated from your parents? Before coming here?"

Sancha nodded, still not looking at him. "And now I think I have lost my place to sleep. It wouldn't be wise to stay in the church anymore. If I had money, I may find an inn, but…"

She threw her hands up as she trailed off. Quasimodo noticed she only had two rings on her fingers, as opposed to the three she had when she came to apologize. Had she taken to pawning her jewelry to afford her bread?

He watched as her eyes fluttered under the weight of sleep, her gaze growing unfocused in the quiet. As she turned her head to cover another yawn, he spoke up before he could talk himself out of his idea.

"Y-You could stay here, if you wanted – There's an empty room behind that curtain" – he pointed over her shoulder – "a-and no one ever comes up here. You'd just have to deal with the bells, and…"

_And me_. As soon as he started talking, Quasimodo regretted ever giving the idea a voice. Sancha wouldn't want to stay in the bell tower. Sure, she was kind, but that didn't mean she was willing to be in close quarters with him. He looked away as he remembered how terrified she was upon first seeing him. Of course this was a bad idea. How could he have been so stupid as to think she would want to keep his company that often, or want to –

"You would let me?" Sancha asked sleepily, interrupting his racing thoughts. She peered up at him through her eyelashes. "After I was so mean?"

Despite himself, he laughed. "Mean? Sancha, you shared your lunch with me just the other day."

The girl rubbed her eyes again and blinked a few times. "I was still cruel before. The first time I came here…"

Quasimodo patted her hand. "You're tired. You're saying silly things."

Another yawn. "I came to keep your company, and now I'm falling asleep on you."

"Then we'll talk in the morning."

"_Pero,_ it is morning…"

Even as she protested, though, a look of relieved gratitude settled over her face. Taking the hint, Quasimodo stood and helped her to her feet.

"Come. I'll show you where you can stay."

With a little nod, Sancha retrieved the palette she had left downstairs and followed him. Quasimodo led her past the table and pinned back the curtain for her. She knelt in the little 'room' and unrolled the palette on the floorboards.

"If you need anything, I won't be far," he told her. "I have to ring each mass, though, so it might get a little loud sometimes."

Sancha shrugged one shoulder. "Bells make beautiful sounds; old women in churches do not. _No hay problema.*_"

Quasimodo chuckled and stepped away from the newly made bed. "The next office won't be for a while, anyway. You should be able to get a few hours in."

He made a move to leave, when Sancha's soft voice stayed his step.

"_Esperas…*_"

She was suddenly standing behind him, a little closer than he was expecting. As soon as he turned, she took his hands and gave them a firm squeeze. A sleepy smile played over her lips, and despite her haggard appearance, she appeared quite lovely in the soft candlelight.

"Thank you, my friend. I do not know what I did to receive such kindness, but I am grateful."

The young man stood there for a moment in stunned silence. The expression on Sancha's face made his stomach flip over. As soon as he recognized the feeling for what it was, he shoved it away and let his hands slip from hers.

"Of course," he said softly. "You're welcome. A-Always…"

With that, Sancha retreated to bed, and Quasimodo unpinned the curtain for her. Once they were separated, he stayed where he was and flexed his fingers. Sancha's hands had been warm and appeared to almost burn his skin. Despite this, he couldn't deny the pleasantly warm sense of belonging when he remembered the last words she spoke to him.

It had been a long week without any sign of Esmeralda and Phoebus. But now, he decided, the bell tower didn't feel so cold and empty anymore.

* * *

**_* No hay problema_ : No problem**

**_* Esperas_ : Wait **

**If you're curious to know what Sancha said to Marguerite before running up to the bell tower, I invite you to search the WordReference forums for a translation - Some things are just too crass for an author's note ;P Anyway, thank you for reading once again, dear reader, and stay tuned for more next week!**


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello, dear reader! Apologies for the late upload... I meant to have this chapter up for the weekend, but alas, life happened... Anyway, I hope you enjoy this section. Quick PSA though: I'll be going on vacation for two weeks starting this weekend, so this story will be on a small hiatus. Fear not, though, dear reader. The next chapter has already been written and just needs to be edited. Thanks for understanding, and happy reading!**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**_"New and a bit alarming,_**

**_Who'd have ever thought that this could be?"_**

_'Something There', Beauty and the Beast_

A loud, sombre tolling startled Sancha out of a dreamless sleep. She sighed and stretched out of her palette, gazing up at the endless levels of rafters.

She had been waking up to the ringing of bells for over a week now, the candle wax in her ears only doing so much to block the sound, but she didn't mind. Sometimes, she was so tired she would sleep through all the morning offices. Other times, when the bells roused her in the wee hours, she would lie awake and listen to them sing.

This morning, Sancha did neither. Instead, she rolled over, pushed the curtain aside, and peeked out from the drapery. Quasimodo was up on the floor opposite her, pulling down hard on a rope that led up to the swinging bells overhead.

She watched him for a moment, in awe of the strength it must take to make the bells ring. He made it look effortless, and Sancha couldn't help but to think all the knights in Castile couldn't hold a candle to Notre Dame's bell ringer. For some reason, it made her grin with a strange sort of pride

Gathering the blanket around her shoulders (and removing the wax), Sancha stood and pinned the curtain back. When she stepped out onto the mezzanine, the bells seemed to get louder, as if they were offering her a boisterous greeting. She crossed the floor and gazed up at Quasimodo, catching his eye in a matter of seconds.

"Good morning," she called when he let go of the rope.

He glanced down at her and replied, "Good morning. Did I wake you up again?"

"I was awake," Sancha assured him. Her gaze went from him to the bells at his hunched back. "I did not interrupt your work?"

"No, not at all. I was finished."

"A pity…"

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I enjoy the sounds of your bells," she admitted with a noncommittal shrug. Unsure of why she was telling him this, she added, "They give me a sort of… 'peace', I believe is the word?"

Quasimodo glanced over his shoulder and back down at her. She saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, something she had come to recognize as a sign he wanted to ask her something. She had seen it when he asked if he asked if she needed help at the market yesterday, and she saw it before that when he offered her a room in the bell tower. Sancha didn't know why he was so shy around her; they had been living together peacefully for a week, now. But, she decided not to push him on the subject. Instead, she waited until he spoke first.

"Would… Would you like to see them?" he asked finally.

"Yes," she said gently. "That would make me happy."

It seemed to make Quasimodo happy too. Without a moment to lose, he helped her up to the second floor and waited until she had her balance before showing her the bells. Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, Sancha followed her companion where she could, watching as he swung up into the rafters to point out the various bells. She tried to remember some of their names: Anne-Marie, Sophia, Louise…

"How do you know which bell it is?" Sancha asked as Quasimodo lowered himself down to her eye-level. "There are many…"

"I've always known," he told her. "I see them all the time; it's impossible not to know who is who."

He was smiling, but Sancha suddenly felt a pang of sadness. As she shrugged off her blanket, she wondered just how much time he had to spend in the tower to know every bell individually. Against her better judgement, she asked, "Quasimodo, why did you come to be the bell ringer here? I mean… Don't you ever become… solitario?" She gestured around at the empty tower. "Lonely?"

In the quiet that followed, Quasimodo's face fell, and Sancha immediately regretted asking. As she watched the young man's uneven brow furrow, she rushed to apologize.

"_Esperas_ – I-I mean, wait, I am sorry to ask… I didn't – I mean… Ah, _mierda_ –"

"Sancha, it's okay. Relax."

Quasimodo's expression softened. "Now that you mention it, I'm actually waiting for my friends to come back to Paris."

Sancha quickly forgot her embarrassment with this revelation. Apart from a few kind strangers that greeted them in the streets, she had previously wondered if he even had friends.

"You are? They are where?"

"I'm not sure, but the last time I saw them, they were headed for Languedoc. They left the city a few months ago. They should be back any day now."

Another pang cut through Sancha. How many times had she told herself the same thing about her parents in the past few days? Had she known Quasimodo was going through a similar torment, she would have comforted him the same way he did her.

"I…"

She trailed off, completely at a loss for words. What would she say? That she was sorry to hear he had endured grinding loneliness for months on end? What would that change? Truthfully, she didn't just want to know how he survived the summer alone. She wanted to ask _exactly_ how long he had been by himself and why he chose to stay in the bell towers of Notre Dame at all. She wanted to ask about that "old master" he brought up a few weeks ago, and why his friends left the city. Why did he not have a family? And most of all, what cruelty allowed for such a kind soul to be encased in such an unkind body?

But, she couldn't bring herself to pull the curtain back on those questions. And, judging by the stiffness in Quasimodo's shoulders, maybe he didn't want her to.

Before the silence could become too hard to ignore, Sancha noticed a small brass shape in the corner of her eye. She turned and pointed to the lone bell that hung a few feet away.

"Who is that one?" she asked. "I did not see her before."

The tension fled from Quasimodo's form immediately. "Oh, th-that's a spare I keep rigged in case of emergencies. She doesn't really have a name yet."

Sancha walked over to the bell and circled it. The brass was dull but in good shape, and it was a smaller bell, much smaller than the ones Quasimodo was ringing before. She glanced up to see a frayed rope dangling from the rafters.

"Would it be all right if I try?"

"Try to ring it?"

There was a pause, and when Sancha glanced over her shoulder, she was met with a funny little smile from Quasimodo. She hadn't seen that look yet. He was wringing his hands slightly, and although he wasn't looking at her – he was looking up at the bell – he didn't seem completely averse to the idea.

"All right," he said. "You can give it a try. It's rather heavy, though."

Sancha smiled in thanks and reached for the rope. She placed her hands together, as Quasimodo instructed, and took up a wide stance. She had never rung a church bell before. It would definitely be something to tell her mother once they met up again at the cathedral.

Shoving all thoughts of her parents away, Sancha took a deep breath and pulled.

The bell didn't move.

"Huh?"

She straightened and looked up at the bell. Despite the size, it was much heavier than it looked. She readied herself again and pulled with all her might.

The bell might have moved an inch.

Sancha moved her feet together and leaned her all her weight backwards until she was effectively supported by the rope. The bell moved but a few, slow inches. The clapper barely hit the soundbow.

She glanced over at Quasimodo to find him watching with that same smile. Unable to help herself, she burst out laughing.

"You are right," Sancha relented, letting the rope go. "It is very heavy."

"Here." He pushed off from the beam he was leaning on. "I'll help you. Place your hands like this – "

Quasimodo looped his arm around her and placed her hands close together. He made her close her fingers around the rope and held her hands firmly in place. They surely wouldn't slip as long as he covered them. Sancha's heart leapt at the thought.

Moving to her side, Quasimodo said, "Now you're going to bend your knees and pull as hard as you can without throwing your back. You ready?"

"_Sí_," she squeaked.

"Okay, on the count of three." He was so close she could feel his muscles tense. "One… two…"

"Three!"

Sancha did exactly as she was told: Bent her knees and threw all her strength into pulling the rope. This time, however, there was very little resistance. Quasimodo's grip on her hands tightened, guiding Sancha to bring her arms down. As the clapper hit the side of the bell, the girl let out a triumphant laugh. She leaned back into Quasimodo's chest, and although the ringing drowned out all other sounds, she could feel him laughing too.

The bell swung overhead, and Sancha let Quasimodo help her pull the rope back. Once again, another knell startled the pigeons out of the rafters. She glanced over her shoulder with nothing to say, knowing the bell wouldn't let her be heard if she did. She only wanted to show him the simple joy he had brought to her in this dark, dark time.

Quasimodo's misshapen face was much closer to hers than she was expecting. Indeed, his chin almost touched her shoulder. And yet, Sancha didn't feel the need to recoil. In fact, she didn't even feel like looking away. Despite his unusual appearance, his eyes were bright and lively, and though his teeth were crooked, Sancha decided he had a nice smile. She might have even described it as cute.

Suddenly feeling as if the floor was going to fall out beneath her, Sancha turned away. Out of Quasimodo's line of sight, she bit the smile off her lip. Try as she might, though, the shakiness in her knees wouldn't leave. Where, she asked herself, in all of Creation did that come from?

XXX

"This isn't right. They should have arrived by this time."

It was late afternoon, and Quasimodo was walking along the Seine with Sancha. Despite the sunny day, her eyes were dark with concern, and she incessantly twisted the ring on her left pointing finger – a simple emerald attached to a golden band. It was the prettiest ornament she owned, and Quasimodo was almost afraid she'd drop it if she wasn't careful.

Worse yet, he didn't know what to say in the face of her concerns. They were talking about her parents, and how there had not been any sign of them since her arrival to Paris. Though she usually tried to hide it, Quasimodo had seen the forlorn looks on her face when she returned from afternoons of useless waiting outside the cathedral doors. Sancha was beginning to lose hope, and there wasn't much he could do except reassure her.

"Lots of things can happen on the road, can't they?" he asked. "Maybe there was a delay, or they had to take a longer route."

Sancha nodded. Her mouth, however, was still set in a tense frown. "You may be right… I hope you are right…"

They walked in silence for a moment. The sun was warm at their backs, and the banks of the river were lined with women and their laundry, as well as children of varying ages. The sun danced off the gentle ripples in the water and threw beams of light on Sancha's face, only to reveal her soft brown eyes were filling with tears.

"I don't know…" she murmured. "I fear they are dead…"

She turned away and pulled her veil down. Quasimodo watched her, his heart sinking at the sight. What he wouldn't give to see her smiling again, like she did when he helped her ring the spare bell earlier that week. Though she had turned away from him quickly, he hadn't forgotten the way her eyes lit up with each knell, or the dimples that appeared in her cheeks when she smiled.

Now, he struggled to find something to say. It might have been easier to comfort her if he knew the specifics of her separation from her parents. All she told him was they had been caught up in some kind of social strife, and Sancha had been the only one to escape. And, though her evasiveness was a little hurtful, he wouldn't press her for answers. Especially not now, while she was fighting to keep herself together in public.

"Sancha?"

They stopped walking, and he stepped around to face her. Though she had effectively created blinders out of her veil, she let him see her face, glassy red eyes and all.

"Please don't cry," he said gently. "You can't know for sure if your parents are… gone. Whatever happens, you're going to be okay."

Of course, he couldn't know that for sure either, but he was certain that he wouldn't let his friend live without a roof over her head or food on her plate.

Blinking away tears, Sancha managed a little smile. "You are right. I must not be so faithless. _Bueno_…" She wiped at her cheeks and took in a deep, calming breath. "I do not want to cry before everyone in Paris."

Before Quasimodo could reply, she linked her arm with his and said, "Let's keep walking. I wish to see more of the city."

"Ah – S-Sure."

With that, the two of them walked off, their connected reflections dancing off the surface of the Seine. Sancha squeezed his arm a little, almost unconsciously, and it was hard to ignore the swooping sensation in his stomach. It was the same feeling he got on the rare occasion where he almost slipped from a parapet or a rope. And, try as he might to force the feeling away, it only intensified when Sancha winked at him, as if to say, "I'm all right now." Quasimodo thought about pulling away from her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Despite everything, he didn't want to let go of her.

They eventually made their way away from the riverbank and down one of Paris's side streets. Sancha held fast to Quasimodo the entire way. Bystanders and passers-by shot them curious looks, which made his face warm with a mix of shyness and – dare he admit it? – pride.

She's just being nice, he reminded himself. That's all it is.

"Quasimodo? Are you all right?"

She was watching him with a furrowed brow and a slight frown. The young man stumbled over his words for a moment before managing to spit out, "Yes, I'm fine. Why?"

"You appear upset."

He wasn't sure if she had an uncanny ability to read him, or if he was simply that terrible at hiding his thoughts. How would he answer her now? Would he tell her that he was bothered by his attraction to her because he knew it was all for naught? Insist that he didn't mind that she didn't feel the same way and have her pity him in return?

For the sake of their friendship, he pushed his doubts away and insisted, "I'm fine, Sancha, I promise. Just a little lost in thought."

He gave the hand coiled around his bicep a reassuring pat. Sancha's expression softened immediately at the touch, and it could have been his imagination, but he thought he saw a flush of colour light up her face.

As they looked at each other, though, something flashed in Sancha's eyes. Quasimodo couldn't quite name the emotion, but he did know she looked rather troubled all of a sudden.

"_Ahora*_…" she murmured, her brow furrowing. "May I tell you something…?"

Before he could ask her what was wrong, a stage whisper floated out from the side of the street and nipped at their heels.

"… so disgusting. Do you think she's blind?"

"Or maybe she's a common girl. And a desperate one, too… Could she really be in such a bad way she'd take up with… that?"

Sancha's head snapped up and turned in the direction of the insulting comment. Quasimodo glanced over his shoulder to see the cobbler's wife, Pernelle, watching them from the sidewalk with an acquaintance. Both women's eyes were trained on them, noses wrinkled in disapproval. Not a moment too soon, Sancha's arm loosened around his.

"Sancha, it's okay, don't –"

But it was too late. Sancha disengaged herself and marched over to Pernelle.

"If you are having an opinion of me or my friend, madame," Sancha started warningly, "why do you not tell it to my face?"

Pernelle blinked and flicked her veil over her shoulder. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Sancha…" Quasimodo tried again and reached for her elbow, but she didn't move.

"You are pretending to be ignorant," Sancha said. Her lip curled back, giving her the appearance of a snarling she-wolf.

"Aren't you the sharp one," Pernelle said in mock amazement. She glanced down at Quasimodo and took a step back, her expression falling. "You two ought to clear off right now. I'll not have a common woman and a hunchback 'round my husband's business."

Apparently unable to withstand the confrontation, Pernelle's companion excused herself and hurried away. Sancha didn't even look at the departing woman. Jaw set, she told Pernelle, "Apologize to my friend. He does not deserve what you say."

Pernelle glanced down at Quasimodo again, her expression rapidly disintegrating from angry to fearful.

"Get off my property, both of you," she said, though she was only looking at the bell ringer. This only made Sancha angrier.

"Not until you excuse yourself for what you have said," she growled.

"I'm telling you to leave," Pernelle repeated, her voice warbling.

"No!" Sancha yelled, and when she took a step towards the cobbler's wife, the latter called out shrilly over her shoulder.

"Guillaume! Guillaume, come quickly!"

That was the last straw. Quasimodo grabbed a hold of Sancha with both hands, completely intending to drag her off at a run before they could both get into serious trouble. But, she dug in her heels, which gave Pernelle's husband enough time to emerge from the darkness of his shop and survey them all with his beady black eyes.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"They're trespassing," Pernelle said, pointing.

Sancha wrenched her arm from Quasimodo's slackened grip and faced Guillaume. "I mean only to tell your _zorra_ of a wife to correct herself for speaking slander."

Guillaume's dark eyes immediately grew stormy. "What did you call my wife?"

"Sancha, please…"

They could have been running far away from this trouble now if Quasimodo had just thrown her over his shoulder and taken off when the danger wasn't imminent.

Sancha took a step back from the angry man, but she didn't lower her gaze. In fact, she was so bold as to look him in the eye.

"I call her only as I see her, sir. She addressed me as a 'common', when I am not, and she implied a cruel thing about my friend. You should do your duty as a husband and guide her correctly in her mannerism, in my opinion."

Guillaume's nostrils flared, giving him the appearance of a bull about to charge.

"I'll show you exactly where you can put those opinions, you little wh – "

The cobbler would never get to finish his sentence; as he reached to grab Sancha by the neck of her dress, he found himself thrown up against the wall of his own shop. A furious Quasimodo held him in place, his features twisted further into a snarl.

"Keep your hands off her!" he shouted. "And don't ever call her that again."

The man spluttered out something incomprehensible as he unsuccessfully tried to pry Quasimodo's hands off the front of his tunic. The bell ringer didn't let him go until Guillaume relented with, "Fine, I take it back! Now _you_ get your hands off _me_."

Quasimodo released him, letting the cobbler regain his own footing. He turned back to Sancha, ignoring the pale and gawping Pernelle. Sancha didn't seem hurt, but she was wearing the expression of someone who had just been beaten over the head with a yardstick. It was a look that was painfully familiar.

"Come on," he said, walking past her, "let's go home."

Quasimodo watched his feet carry him away from the shop, his heart sinking with each hobbled step. Had he frightened her? The last time he had seen her look like that was a lifetime ago, when she found her way up to his home by accident. Despite having acted to protect her, the young man couldn't shake the fear that she saw him now as every bit of the monster she thought he was on that stormy night.

As he walked, Sancha's quick footsteps followed. But, she didn't take his arm again for the rest of the way back to Notre Dame.

* * *

*** _Ahora_: Now**

**Not many translation today either because Sancha translated them herself, or because she was swearing... The mouth on that girl... **

**Thank you for reading, dear reader! And thank you, as well, to my reviewers :) Until next time... **


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello, dear reader! Thank you for being patient with me while I wandered around Europe for two weeks. We'll get back to regular updates, now that I'm back home. Excuse the length of this chapter - I know it's short but I'll be adding another one later on this week to compensate. Nevertheless, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

_**"The world is cruel.**_

_**The world is wicked."**_

_'Out There', The Hunchback of Notre Dame_

Sancha and Quasimodo returned to the bell tower in silence. Neither looked at the other as they ascended the stairs. The atmosphere up on the mezzanine was so oppressive Quasimodo couldn't stand it. All he wanted to do was hide himself away and forget the ugly encounter in the street.

After a beat, he awkwardly cleared his throat and said, "I have – There's a-a- bell I have to – I need to go rig one of the bells…"

He silently cursed himself for stumbling over such a transparent excuse. He turned away and stepped towards the nearby ladder but paused when he saw Sancha's face. Her eyes had grown wide, her brow furrowed, and her mouth slightly parted.

She looked, in a word, hurt.

"You do not wish to speak to me?" she asked.

Quasimodo searched for something to say, frozen in place. What was that supposed to mean? Did she think he was angry at her?

"I want to tell you I'm sorry," she continued, her voice soft but sorrowful. She looked down at her hands, where her fingers worked at her two remaining rings. "I didn't mean to cause such trouble. My papa always told me I am too loud… I think sometimes maybe he is right about that…"

The floorboards creaked slightly under Quasimodo's feet. He approached the young woman carefully, almost afraid she would run away. When she didn't recoil, he took the risk and captured her busy hands in his. Her fingers immediately stopped fidgeting and curled into his palms.

"Don't say that," he told her gently. "I… I just didn't want you to get hurt."

"But what of you?" she asked, raising her head to look him in the eye. "Are you not hurt?"

"I'm okay." He gestured to the length of his crooked body to make his point.

"Not there – Here." She pressed her palm to his chest, her face threatening to crumble at any moment. "Do you never hurt here? With what that woman said today?"

Quasimodo tried to answer but found himself short of breath. The longer Sancha pressed her hand against him, the lighter his head became. A tense moment passed before he managed, "Things are better than they were…"

"But it does not make it all right to say these things." Sancha bit down on her lip and crossed her arms. She turned a walked a few paces towards the worktable, presenting her back to him. "I am… fed up of the cruel words, and the fighting, and the hatred… And it only happens to people who are different, not people who are bad…"

Her voice broke a little. Quasimodo watched helplessly as her shoulders began to shake, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves. Though he didn't blame Sancha for getting upset, it broke his heart to see her like this. Cautiously, he reached out and touched her shoulder.

"Sancha…"

Without warning, the girl turned and threw her arms around him. She nearly knocked him back, the element of surprise unbalancing him. Her cheek was warm against the dip of his neck, and her grip was tight, protective. It took him a moment to understand what just happened before hesitantly wrapping his arms around her trembling body.

"You're the kindest man I have met in all my life," she whispered. "I don't wish to see you hurt like everyone else I have known."

Quasimodo's heart leapt into his throat, stifling any words of comfort he had prepared. No one had ever said that to him before, let alone held him so close. Rooted to the floor, he stood in silence as Sancha's body shivered against his with suppressed sobs. She didn't raise her head, and Quasimodo was glad for it; she would have seen his own eyes filling with tears.

The scent of rosewater clung to her and filled Quasimodo's senses as he tightened his arms. He raised a quivering hand and touched the back of her head, hoping it would covey the words now stuck in his throat.

_I promise I won't let anything happen to you._

XXX

Cardinal Tomas de Tavera prided himself on his thoroughness. As a novice, he had studied and understood the works of every theologian he could get his hands on. In his sermons, he was steadfast in his interpretation of Scripture and would even summarize his points in the common language if he deemed it necessary. And, when he had been appointed as Grand Inquisitor by Queen Isabella herself, Tomas de Tavera accepted the title with every single righteous responsibility it conferred.

Now, as he sat at his desk, reviewing his notes, he realized he did not know the true meaning of thoroughness until now.

After Alfonso's disappearance, he had been rendered completely immobile, physically and spiritually. The child's mother, a servant woman named Leoncia, had taken a particularly bad shock and collapsed in the papal apartments. She had yet to rise from bed, even with Tavera visiting her every day.

Despite his efforts to comfort and console his mistress, Tavera's conscience continued to be wracked with guilt. Sleep evaded him ever since the day his boy went missing, and many futile pleas to God for mercy ended in bitter tears and a confrontation with what he knew now to be true: Alfonso's death was God's judgement on Tomas for his relationship with Leoncia.

And, the only way to atone was through some grand and holy gesture.

Tomas leaned back in his chair and massaged his temples, attempting to beat back a threatening migraine. He was tired and irritable, but he could not stop. He had sworn himself to this metaphorical penance walk and refused to slow down until he had taken the very last step.

"Your Eminence," one of the soldiers murmured from the doorway, "if you're ready for the next one…"

Tavera waved his hand. "Send him in."

He had been wrong about the next prisoner, for the soldier dragged in a woman. She was of middling age, with sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a straight nose. Despite the woman being caked in dirt and grime, Tavera recognized her immediately.

"_La Cristiana_…"

Jeanne de Beaumont did not move or speak. Instead, her wide, scared eyes found the rack of interrogation devices behind his desk. The sight of her trembling body brought a rueful smile to Tavera's lips.

"I was wondering when I would get to you," he continued. "You present a rather curious case for me."

Jeanne asked, "Where is my husband?"

Tavera thought for a moment. "The physician?"

"Avram, yes."

The cardinal spread his hands in a gesture of feigned ignorance. "I don't concern myself with anything that takes place beyond the walls of this office, _señora_."

It might have been amusing to tell Jeanne the last time he had seen her husband was from the floor, gazing up at him writhing on a rope as his arms separated from his shoulder sockets. He might tell her later, if she decided to be difficult, that after the _strappado_, Avram wept like a babe as Tavera's men dragged him out to the pyre in the courtyard. Maybe he would bargain with Jeanne for a more dignified death than her husband had, if she was willing to cooperate.

But, it was too early in the game for such tricks. Jews were sneaky, and just because Jeanne was nominally Christian, Tavera could only imagine what years with the enemies of Christ had done to twist her mind.

"Now," Tavera said, rising from his seat. "You know why you are here, don't you?"

"I am here," Jeanne replied, "on a false accusation."

"And tell me, what accusation do you think that is?"

"The kidnapping and killing your only son, Your Eminence."

Footsteps echoed through the chamber as Tavera approached Jeanne. He twisted his fingers in her matted hair and pulled down hard, forcing her to look up at him. The woman didn't scream, and that only made Tavera angrier.

"Watch your tongue, harlot," he snarled. "That boy was the natural son of Leonica de la Vega, and that is only how you will refer to him."

"That child," Jeanne said through gritted teeth, "was called to God by tragic circumstances that neither I nor my family have any knowledge of."

Tavera shoved her away and strode back to his desk. "Very good. You just earned 'telling of falsehoods' to the existing charges of kidnapping, blood libel, and Marranism.*"

He hastily scribbled on a sheet of parchment and added, "You are accused of all these things, as well as concealing and enabling the escape of a suspect. Do not for a moment think I didn't see you daughter leave out the back of your house that day."

For the first time since entering his chamber, a flash of panic alighted on Jeanne's face. A victory!

"My daughter is innocent."

"Your daughter is a fugitive, and her fleeing from authorities does not bode well for her. Pray tell, Señora de Beaumont, why did she run if she has nothing to hide?"

The emptying of Toledo's _judería_ and its surrounding neighbourhoods had been mostly successful. However, there was one mouse who had evaded the trap: Sancha Bat Avram had escaped arrest and disappeared out of the city. Tavera nearly hung the guards who lost her that day. Her absence meant his promise to God to rid the world of Toledo's heathens continued unfulfilled.

"Your Eminence, she's just a girl – "

"Her running away is proof enough of her guilt."

He came around the desk and stalked back towards her. Jeanne was trying and failing to keep a neutral expression, and Tavera was finally feeling like he was getting somewhere.

"You will tell me where she is," he said, slowly and dangerously. "Or you will rue the day you ever decided to come to Toledo."

Jeanne moved her mouth silently before managing, "I-I do not know where she went."

"She told you nothing?"

"I don't remember."

That was a typical response. The Jews were skilled in willful ignorance, and they had taught Jeanne well. Nevertheless, Tavera couldn't help but to smile.

"That's quite all right," he told her, before gesturing to the rack over his shoulder. "I shall help you remember."

* * *

_**Marranism: **_**The act of practicing Judaism in secret.**

**Once again, excuse the length of the chapter, but another is coming very soon - Thank you, as always, for reading! :) **


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hello again, dear reader. As promised, here is the second update. We'll get back to normal weekly chapters after this. As always, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**_"God help the outcasts,_**

**_Or nobody will."_**

_'God Help the Outcasts', The Hunchback of Notre Dame_

Morning in Paris: A new day rose on the city and the ever-watchful towers of Notre Dame. A few miles away from the cathedral, a sentinel at the city gates was roused by the rumbling of approaching carriages. The guard blinked and tried to rub the mass of colours from his eyes, certain he had stood up too fast.

When he realized the colours belonged to the carriages – No, the caravans – he couldn't help but smile.

"It's about time," he murmured as he signalled for his partner to raise the portcullis.

XXX

Although it was Sunday, Sancha and Quasimodo were working. After Mass, they had retreated to the bell tower to get some last-minute chores done before lunchtime.

Sancha didn't mind the extra labour. Back in Toledo, she often alternated sabbaths, with one week being dedicated to church with her mother, and the next attending the synagogue with her father on Saturday. She also altered her chores accordingly, and this weekend was no different. In fact, she found the bell tower to be a surprisingly peaceful domicile in which to work. She sat by the spare bell, mending one of Quasimodo's tunics as he hopped from rafter to rafter above her, polishing the bells. As she worked, Sancha quietly sang a verse from her favorite song.

_"Mi madre'sta cuziendo, mos oyera,_

_Mi madre'sta cuziendo, mos oyera._

_Pedrelde la aldejecka'si se dormira_

_Pedrelde la aldejecka'si s'echera…"*_

She held up the tunic for scrutiny. The garment's sleeve had been ripped at the seam, but it was now perfectly repaired. Sancha thought her mother would've admired the small and neat stitches and allowed herself to feel a small measure of pride.

When she lowered the tunic, she found Quasimodo smiling down at her from the nearest rafter.

"That's beautiful."

"You are sweet," Sancha laughed, rising to her feet. "My mama always said I was better with a needle than a kitchen knife."

"Oh, yes, the tunic looks wonderful now. Thank you." Quasimodo lowered himself to her level and added softly, "But I was talking about your singing. I didn't know you could sing."

Sancha's cheeks seared. "You were hearing me from all the way up there?"

When Quasimodo nodded shyly, she covered her eyes with her free hand. "_Guay de mí!_* I am not the greatest singer…"

"I liked it," he insisted. "You sounded… happy."

Sancha's expression softened. He was right. Though she wasn't good, she loved to sing. Today was the first time since fleeing Toledo where she felt the urge to sing. And to think, she felt it in a Catholic cathedral, in the company of only the gargoyles, bells, and the kind bell ringer that stood before her.

As she searched for something to say, a soft voice broke the fragile silence.

"Quasimodo?"

Sancha started, as she was under the impression they had been alone. Her companion, however, broke out into a surprised smile. Turning in the direction of the voice, he called out, "Esmeralda?"

"_Qué…?_"

Before the girl could ask what was happening, Quasimodo caught her hand and beckoned her towards the stairs. "Come! I'll introduce you."

Sancha followed her friend down the stairs, bewildered, but froze on the last step.

Standing in the middle of the mezzanine was a young woman, perhaps a year or two Sancha's senior. She had a mane of curly black hair, sun-kissed skin, and the most brilliant pair of green eyes Sancha had ever seen. Her clothes were bright shades of white, purple, and turquoise, a stark contrast to the greys and browns of the tower. And, the clip-clopping of little hooves announced the presence of a Nubian goat that circled her bare feet.

And Quasimodo all but ran to the woman.

Sancha stayed on the step, watching as they embraced. A prickling heat caught in her chest and spread up to her face. She had never received a greeting like that from him, even when she was gone all day.

"I thought you'd never come back!" Quasimodo said to the woman. "I've missed you so much."

"It's so good to see you again, my friend." The stranger released him when her arresting gaze fell on Sancha. "And who is this?"

She didn't ask unkindly, but she did sound mildly surprised. Sancha was paralyzed by her gaze, hardly hearing Quasimodo introduce her.

"I – Oh! I'm sorry I forgot... This is my… This is Sancha. She's a visitor here from Spain. Sancha, this is Esmeralda, my friend."

Friend? Sancha's eyes went from the stranger's bright clothes, to the gold jewelry, to the band in her hair before murmuring to herself, "_Una gitana?_"*

Esmeralda cocked an eyebrow at her. With a knowing smile, she crossed her arms and said right back, "_Una sefardita?_"*

Sancha wasn't sure what dropped faster, her jaw or her heart. How could she know? How could this woman, who she had known for not even five minutes, figure out her most guarded secret?

Sensing the tension between the two women, Quasimodo cleared his throat and asked, "Wh-where's Phoebus?"

"He's hitching up the horses in the square," Esmeralda said. "I was on my way to the blacksmith to commission some new shoes for them, but I wanted to say hello first." Then, she eyed Sancha with a little grin. "Perhaps your friend would like to come with me. I'll need some help haggling a price."

"_Ay_, but I…" Sancha started uncertainly, imaging what her mother would say if she knew her daughter was keeping the company of gypsies.

But, Esmeralda was waiting, and Quasimodo said quietly, "Go on, Sancha. Don't be shy."

She glanced at him, then back at the smiling gypsy girl. Even her pet goat had stopped pattering about and seemed to eye her expectantly.

Well, what other choice did she have?

XXX

Esmeralda walked ahead of Sancha, leading the way to the blacksmith's shop. The latter couldn't help but be mesmerized by her companion; whereas Sancha walked with a straight back and a demure gaze, cast down slightly (just as Jeanne had taught her), Esmeralda held her head high ad proud. Her stride was purposeful, unapologetic, and her hips swayed with the grace of a trained dancer. It was hard not to admire her, and Sancha even tried rolling her hips as she trailed behind the gypsy.

"So, tell me," Esmeralda said, stopping and turning suddenly. "How did a Sephardic Jew end up at Notre Dame de Paris?"

Sancha shushed her in a panic. "Someone will hear!"

"Relax. No one in this city knows what that is."

"But how do you know?"

Esmeralda offered her another knowing smile. "I heard you say '_guay de mí_.' I've never heard that come out of a Spaniard who wasn't at least part Hebrew."

She must have seen the terror in Sancha's eyes, because she added, "I don't know what you're so worried about. Jews don't bother me, and if you can trust Quasimodo with your secret, you can trust me too."

Sancha's panic immediately melted away to something worse: Guilt. Any words of protest she might have had prepared died on her lips, and her gaze immediately went to her feet. She could feel Esmeralda's piercing gaze on her, and she was afraid for a moment she might melt under it.

"Wait, you didn't _tell_ him?"

"Not yet…." Sancha muttered, perfectly ashamed of herself. She looked up to find Esmeralda glaring at her, arms crossed.

"I never knew Quasimodo to be someone who couldn't keep a secret," she said. "What reason did he ever give you not to trust him?"

"Please, it isn't that," Sancha insisted, her chest growing tight. "Allow me to explain…"

They resumed their walking, and with a bowed head, Sancha explained in a hushed voice what happened in Toledo and why she was currently at Notre Dame. She barely listened to herself as she talked. It sounded strange to hear her trial spoken aloud, since she had kept it quiet since Tavera had swept through her neighbourhood.

And to think, her first attempt at honesty in this city was with a gypsy woman she barely knew.

Sancha didn't regret her decision to come clean, though, because Esmeralda's expression softened considerably when she was done. She looked much more pensive, turning the girl's story over in her mind.

"I always knew Spain as an unkind place. Your people were accused of blood libel; mine were accused of cannibalism in Zaragoza. We left the city when I was ten because of it," Esmeralda said. "I'm surprised you and your family stayed in Toledo for as long as you did."

"It is our home," Sancha said with a shrug. "_Bueno_, it _was_ our home until things became… very bad."

They walked in contemplative silence for a moment longer, with Djali trotting at their heels. After a moment, Sancha murmured, "I lost my mother and father, as well as my friends for what we are… I couldn't accept the thought of losing another friend…"

Esmeralda observed her companion for a moment. The little Spaniard hugged her arms as she walked, watching her feet carry her down the street. She didn't have to ask to know that she was talking about Quasimodo. The gypsy shook her head, wanting to both pity and scold her for being so secretive. Did she not know the bell ringer at all?

"You wouldn't have," she told her. "Quasimodo is a kind man and a friend to the gypsies. Your heritage wouldn't matter to him."

"I know that now," the girl said miserably, pinching the bridge of her nose. "But it has been so long since I did not tell him, and when I tried, it… It wasn't right."

Esmeralda nodded, almost feeling the conflict in Sancha's heart. Although she never had the drive (or desire) to hide who she was, Esmeralda understood the plight of the oppressed all too well. While she faced it head on, Sancha had opted to self-preserve by hiding. She couldn't fault her for it, especially under the circumstances. Though Esmeralda was protective of Quasimodo, she couldn't deny her growing empathy for Sancha.

"Well, you should tell him soon," she said, gently but firmly.

"I know I must," Sancha said, swallowing down hard. Clearly, she was still nervous about the idea. "I hope only that he will forgive me. He was the one to take me in when I lost my place to sleep in the church… He is deserving to know…"

Esmeralda cocked an eyebrow. She had been under the impression the girl was just visiting Quasimodo, not living with him. "And how did that happen?"

Sancha smirked and nodded towards something over Esmeralda's shoulder. "It happened when she stepped on me in the middle of the night."

The gypsy turned to see a stiff-backed noblewoman with greying blonde hair and pinched lips glaring at them from across the street. The woman shook her head in disapproval at the girls and turned back to the butcher, who she was purchasing a pound of veal from. The lady was Paris's most devoutly religious widow, Marguerite de Beaumont, and Esmeralda wasn't the least bit surprised Sancha had had a run-in with the old bat.

"Oh, her." Esmeralda returned Sancha's covert smile. "She once tried to empty her chamber pot on me during a dance."

"Were you hit?" Sancha gasped.

"No. The wind was strong that day and everything that was in the pot blew back onto her."

The two young women laughed aloud and continued on their way, pointedly ignoring the nasty look Marguerite threw at them.

Upon arriving at the blacksmith, Sancha realized that Esmeralda did not need her help at all for haggling a price. She knew exactly what a fair deal was and didn't budge until the smith relented and accepted her offer. Sancha had only ever seen her father bargain so competently, and she fought to push away the sad memory as they left the shop.

"By the way you never told me," Esmeralda said, "how did you meet Quasimodo? When the old woman caught you sleeping in the church?"

At the mention of her friend, Sancha's heart lifted and she broke out into a wide smile. "No, it was before that. Now to look back on it, it's quite funny…"

Sancha told her companion of how she had wandered unknowingly into his living quarters and how they became friends. As Sancha spoke, she didn't notice Esmeralda watching her face, observing with curiosity and amusement how Sancha's eyes lit up and her lips pulled into a smile whenever she said Quasimodo's name. It was a look she had seen on other women before, and it told her everything that Sancha wasn't saying out loud.

And, seeing that look on her face melted the last of Esmeralda's suspicions towards the little Sephardi girl.

XXX

The doors of the torture chamber flew open, and the screams of a woman in terrible pain startled the pair of guards at the entrance. Tomas de Tavera paid them no mind as he swept out of the room, wiping the back of his hand with a kerchief – A speck of blood dappled the back of his hand.

Without turning back to observe the abject suffering he had caused, the cardinal snapped his fingers. At the command, one of the guards, Gomez, ran to the clergyman's side.

"Sir?"

"The girl is hiding out in Paris," Tavera told him. "Her mother confirmed it not two minutes ago. I have no doubt in my mind she was finally being honest with me." With a cold smirk, he added, "You'd be surprised what the promise of leniency means to these heathens, Gomez."

Gomez nodded, his gaze still unsure. "And… what are we to do with this information, Your Eminence?"

"We leave for France as soon as possible," Tavera said. His gaze was hard, and his tone matter of fact. "Ready your squire and pack lightly. And bring the prison carriage."

An uneasy silence fell in the dark hallway, broken only by the woman's quavering screams from the chamber.

"Cardinal Tavera," Gomez started slowly, "the executions will take another four days at least. With all due respect, sir, what purpose would hunting one escaped Jewess serve? She's out of Spain, and not our concern anymore."

Tavera glared at the guard, and for a moment, Gomez thought the inquisitor might strike him. "The Jews of Toledo are responsible for the death and mutilation of an innocent. God will not absolve our nation if I let even one wicked heart go unpunished. And if you value your station, Gomez, I would ready the carriages as soon as possible."

With that, the irate cardinal stormed off, letting the door at the end of the hallway bang shut behind him. Gomez stared after him for a moment, completely bewildered by the cardinal's orders. If there was any doubt left in his heart about the rumours of Alfonso's parentage, it was purged now.

Still, an order was an order, and he was to obey his master. He turned back and ordered his subordinate, Diego, to fetch the prisoner for execution. The younger guard disappeared into the torture chamber and emerged with the bloody, broken form of Jeanne de Beaumont. The bodice of her dress was wet from the water of the _tormenta de toca_,* and her eyes were red with bitter tears. She murmured feverishly to herself as she was dragged past Gomez, her words tumbling like a prayer from her cracked and pale lips.

"Oh, Sancha, I am so sorry… God, protect my girl… Let her find Marguerite, please... Please…"

* * *

*** _Mi madre'sta cuziendo, mos oyera:_ My mother is sewing, she will hear us**

**_Pedrelde la aldejecka'si se dormira_: Hide the needle, and she will sleep**

**_Pedrelde la aldejecka'si s'echera:_ Hide the needle, and she will lie down**

***"**_**Guay de mí": "**_**Woe is me" (from what I understand, this is the Ladino version of "oy vey")**

***_Una gitana_: A gypsy (female)**

***_Una sefardita_: A Sephardic Jew (female)**

***_T_**_**ormenta de toca: **_**Waterboarding**

**Phew, that was a lot of translation notes! One more thing, though: The song Sancha is singing at the beginning is known as "Avrix mi galanica", and it appears to be a Sephardic folk song. I couldn't find how far the song dates back, though, so let's just pretend it existed in the 1480s! Anyway, thank you so much again for reading (and for all the reviews and comments)! Until next week :) **


	9. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hello, dear reader! Excuse the slight tardiness of this chapter - It's been a busy weekend! I hope the length of the chapter will make up for it, as this was a long one!**

**Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, PM'd me, and to those who simply read. You all bring a smile to my face :) **

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

_**"Entre la mar y el pinasco**_

_**Mos creció un arbol de clavo**_

_**Ay, échate a la mar**_

_**Échate a la mar y alcansa"***_

_'La Galana y El Mar', Al Andaluz Project _

Sancha was whistling out loud. As she walked down the street, people glanced at her, but she tried not to care. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and she had a song in her head. After spending time with Esmeralda yesterday, Sancha had decided she was no longer going to care what anyone thought of her. And, she decided, she would have the confidence to reveal her secret to Quasimodo tonight, after dinner, when they were both relaxed and idle. Her only worry was that he would feel betrayed by her secrecy.

But, Sancha refused to let that deter her, and she continued to whistle her worries away. She only stopped when she heard a deep voice float up and over her shoulder; it was singing the lyrics to the song she whistled.

_"Avrix, mi galanica, que ya va'menecer!_

_Avrir yo vos avro, mi lindo amor!_

_La noche yo no durmo, pensado en vos…"_

Sancha froze and glanced over her shoulder. She was alone on the street, save for a bearded beggar off to the side, who looked to be around her father's age. He was looking up at her from below the brim of his hat, a grin breaking the surface of his weathered face.

On any other day, Sancha would have been deeply offended if any man had serenaded her with those lyrics in public. But in that moment, she broke out into a toothy smile.

_"Mi padre'sta meldando, mos oyera,"_ she sang back, fighting through her excitement to keep in tune.

_"Amatalde la luzezica'si se dormira,"_ the beggar returned.

_"Amatalde la luzezica'si s'echera!"*_

They finished their verse together. Sancha hurried over to him, laughing and clapping her hands, and if she were applauding the greatest bard she had ever heard. "You're Sephardi too?" she asked in Ladino.

The beggar winked at her. "_Shalom, mi hermana_."*

Sancha could have jumped for joy. After weeks of waiting far from anything even resembling Toledo, here was a little piece of home. And it had come in the shape of a homeless vagrant. Sacha didn't care; she was just happy to hear someone call her 'mi hermana' again.

"And how does _mi hermano_ call himself?"

"Lazar Jimenez, of León," the beggar said, rising to his feet. "And you are…?"

"Sancha Bat Avram, of Toledo."

Lazar smiled and bowed, low and respectfully, before her. "Such a lovely name. Whatever are you doing here, _señorita_? You are a long way from home."

"I might say the same of you, Don Jimenez," Sancha said.

Lazar hissed through his teeth, as if pained. "Well played. The choice to leave was not my own, though. Our dear Queen Isabella saw fit to run her holy dogs through León's judería about a year ago. I came here and have been living hand to mouth ever since. Before that happened, I was the _hazzan*_ at our congregation."

"Mercy," Sancha murmured, her hands over her heart. "My condolences, sir. I've also come here because of the Inquisition."

Lazar's face fell at her words. "Toledo was hit too?"

Sancha frowned, absently fingering her last remaining ring – The emerald her mother had given her for her baptism. "All of Spain has fallen… Under Isabella and Ferdinand, anyone who isn't fully Christian is seen as an enemy…"

She sighed and shrugged off her sorrow. "But I am not worried. My mother and father will meet me here soon, and all will be right in the world."

"And where are your parents now?"

"They…" Sancha bit her lip as the sorrow crept back into her heart. "They were caught up in the emptying of our own _judería_. My mother helped me escape and told me to go to Paris."

Lazar grunted, all the mirth fled from his face. Crossing his arms, he asked, "And who headed this emptying, if I may ask?"

"Tomas de Tavera," Sancha said, wincing. The name itself brought a chill to her bones. "He arrested the entire community on a trumped-up blood libel charge."

"The Tomas de Tavera?" Lazar asked. "The Grand Inquisitor himself?"

Sancha nodded, and her stomach dropped as she watched Lazar's mouth settle into a deep frown. With a shake of his head, he murmured, "Now may I offer my condolences to you."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm happy your mother had the wits about her to see to your escape," he said, "but I'm afraid your waiting here for them is for naught. No one escapes the grip of Tavera or the Inquisition."

Sancha stared at him for a beat. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true.

"You don't know that," she said. "Y-You couldn't possibly know that!"

"Perhaps not, little one, but I would bet my last _livre_ on it."

"You don't know what you're talking about! My mother promised to find me!"

Lazar said gravely, "I saw my entire congregation be taken into Tavera's custody. Not one of them made it out alive. I know very well what I am talking about."

After a tense moment, he sighed and gave her hand an empathetic squeeze. "Quit waiting, Sancha Bat Avram. Live your life, marry a man you love, bear him many children… Just don't go back to Spain or spend your life waiting on a miracle. The Inquisition will not rest until the likes of us are stamped from the face of the Earth, and it would pain me to watch another one of our people waste away on false hope."

"… But…"

Sancha tried to speak, but her throat had closed in on itself. She moved her mouth soundlessly, searching for words of denial and any evidence that Lazar was wrong. But, she found none. Instead, the beggar's pitying gaze broke through the fragile walls she had build around herself, dashing her hope and exposing her to the truth: It had been months already, and her parents had still not found her at Notre Dame.

"I'm sorry, _mi hermana_."

Lazar gave Sancha a parting tip of his hat and shuffled away, leaving the girl to stand in shocked silence, attempting to digest the truth she had just been force-fed. She calculated the time it had taken her to get to Notre Dame since leaving Toledo, and her heart sank. It had taken her two weeks. Even if her parents had been rerouted, they should have shown up by now.

Sancha's vision blurred, an invisible vise around her chest tightening to squeeze the breath out of her lungs. The buildings of Paris rose up around her like ominous sentinels, threatening to collapse with a slight change of the wind. Sancha took an unsteady step forward, then another, and another…

She imagined her father, bound in shackles, as he was dragged from their family home. She reached out with her hands but couldn't get to him. In the same vision, she saw her mother, weeping into her hands as flames ignited at her feet. She raised her head and regarded Sancha with red-rimmed eyes as the fire licked up her skirts.

_I love you, Sancha…_

Before she knew it, Sancha was running. Tears blinded her, and her breath came out in shallow, distressed pants. She careened around the corner, nearly crashing into the baker, but she didn't stop to apologize. The girl ran and ran, not knowing where she was headed. All she knew was the world had stopped making sense not even ten minutes ago.

XXX

As the sun set on Paris, Quasimodo began to worry. Sancha had been gone all day, and if she wasn't back before nightfall, she would be breaking curfew. Everyone knew what happened to women who weren't indoors by a certain time, and the thought almost drove him mad with worry.

Had something happened to her? She had navigated the city by herself before, and she always came back to the bell tower, perfectly fine and ready to make dinner or mend something of his. But she was nowhere to be seen, and it was becoming harder to deny that something was wrong.

Before his anxiety got the better of him, Quasimodo threw on his cloak and left the cathedral to go searching for her.

As twilight threatened, he hurried to the gypsy caravans set up just off the town square. He gave Clopin and the others a distracted greeting as he found his way to Esmeralda and Phoebus's caravan.

Luckily for him, neither had turned in for the night. Esmeralda washing the supper dishes in a small bucket on the steps, Djali dozing at her feet. Phoebus was just around the corner from her, fixing a shutter that had fallen from its sill. They both looked up from their respective chores at the sounds of Quasimodo's approaching footsteps.

"Quasi, what's wrong?" Esmeralda asked, setting her bucket aside.

"It's Sancha. She hasn't come back to the cathedral yet." He glanced at his two friends. "You haven't seen her, have you?"

He was hoping against hope Esmeralda would know. Though there had been some initial tension between her and Sancha yesterday, the two of them had returned from the blacksmith practically arm-in-arm, laughing and talking in rapid-fire 'Frespañol'. Maybe Sancha had told her where she would be that evening.

Nevertheless, Esmeralda shook her head. "No, I have no idea where she is. I haven't seen her since yesterday."

Phoebus, who had met Sancha upon their return from the blacksmith, glanced up at the sky with a frown. The first star had appeared in the sky.

"She didn't tell you where she was going at all?" he asked the bell ringer.

"She went out to run some errands, but that was hours ago."

Phoebus's frown deepened as he rubbed the back of his neck. "That isn't good. I'll get Achilles and see if I can find her. Try checking the Northern part of the city, and I'll go South."

Quasimodo thanked him as he went to fetch his horse. Esmeralda rose from the steps and approached her friend.

"I'll ask around to see if anyone has seen her," she said. "I know you're scared for her, but promise you'll be careful."

Quasimodo promised and smiled in thanks at Esmeralda. With that, he continued down the street, listening to the beat of Achilles's hooves echo into the night.

He searched the dim streets, peering down alleyways, scanning roadsides, and asking the occasional passer-by if they had seen a small, brunette girl with a burgundy dress. Occasionally, Quasimodo called for Sancha, and his fear only worsened whenever silence answered him. He was just beginning to panic when he came across the baker, Gilles, who was just closing his shop for the day.

"I did see her," Gilles said, when Quasimodo asked him if he had seen Sancha. "Plum near ran into me."

"She did?"

Gilles nodded, and removed his hat to give his head a pensive scratch. "Yeah, and she didn't look right at all…"

Quasimodo's heart leapt into his throat. "What?"

"Poor girl was weeping something fierce. Never saw anybody cry that hard in public before, not even a child. She upped and ran off before I could ask what was wrong."

"Where did she go?" The promise of an answer was all that was keeping the bell ringer from running off into the city again.

"Last I saw, roundabout that way." Gilles pointed to a dark side street a few feet away. "Don't make yourself sick now, lad. I reckon she didn't go far."

With a nod and a hurried goodnight, Quasimodo left Gilles and moved as fast as his bowed legs would carry him through the dark street. The alley led out onto the main walkway next to the Seine, where laundresses, children, and fishermen would mingle during the day. Now, it was practically abandoned, and the pink and lavender sky gave it an ominous, haunting appearance.

Quasimodo hurried down the length of the walkway, scaring himself by watching the calm waters of the river, praying Sancha hadn't somehow fallen in. He drew another breath to bellow her name, when a little noise downriver silenced him: A mournful, broken weeping.

A few feet ahead, sitting curled up on the wharf, was Sancha. She appeared unharmed, but it was hard to tell with her face buried in her arms, which were wrapped around her legs. Her shoulders quivered, and muffled sobs were lost in the folds of her dress. Her hair fell in dark tresses over her shoulders, but nothing could mask the bitterness of her weeping.

Quasimodo wanted nothing more than to run over and sweep her up in his arms. But, he forced himself to approach her calmly. The last thing he wanted to do was startle her while she was in such a state. After all, for all the times he had seen her almost cry, he never saw her completely lose her composure.

"Sancha?"

She raised her head at the sound of his soft voice, and the look on her face almost physically hurt him. Her eyes were red and glassy, fresh tears streaked down blotchy cheeks. She had clearly been crying for a long time and showed no signs of stopping.

Quasimodo eased himself down beside her, trying as hard as he could to keep a respectful distance.

"A-Are you hurt?" he asked, fearing the worst.

She shook her head. "No. I-It's… My parents are dead."

His concern melted away to something quieter and sadder. As he watched Sancha struggle to reign in her grief, Quasimodo found nothing to say in response. He racked his brain in silence, but he was too distracted. All he understood was that someone he cared for was falling apart in front of him, and he didn't know how to help.

"How do you know?" he asked eventually, his voice hushed.

"I-I knew it for a while, but I did not want to say it was true. It is only today that I… that I cannot lie anymore. They are d-dead. Tavera killed them, and I… I…"

Sancha's face crumpled, and her head dropped back into her folded arms. Hesitantly, Quasimodo moved closer to her and wrapped his arms around her shaking form. Sancha immediately turned and buried her face in his chest, where she let herself cry without restraint.

As his tunic grew damp with her tears, Quasimodo tried to understand exactly what she had just said. Who was Tavera? Why did he kill her parents? How was she so sure that was what happened?

He didn't give the questions a voice, as much as they burned for answers. All he could do was hold her quietly and let the waves of sadness pass through her. Absentmindedly, he rubbed small circles over her back until her body ceased to shudder with sobs.

"I want to go home," she said, "and I want to talk with you. I only hope you will f-forgive me for what I've done…"

More questions arose, and not without a measure of anxiety. Nevertheless, Quasimodo pushed them away and reminded himself to be patient. Sancha said she wanted to talk, and so they would.

After a moment, he drew away from her. She looked up at him with sad, hollow eyes, her tears now spent. A stray hair was stuck to her cheek, and Quasimodo brushed it away with a careful tenderness.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go home."

XXX

Half an hour later, Sancha was sitting on her palette in the bell tower, a mug of warm cider in her hands (a gift from Esmeralda, who the pair had briefly visited after Sancha was found). Quasimodo had found a warmer blanket for her up on the higher levels of the tower, and he stooped to wrap it around her.

"Nights get cold in the winter here," he said. "You'll freeze if you go out without a cloak."

Sancha gave him a weak smile in thanks, though it looked more like a grimace. "I scared you tonight. I'm sorry."

Quasimodo said nothing as he took a seat in front of her. She was right. He was scared for her, but it was nothing compared to the relief of finding her before anything bad happened. Eclipsing everything, though, was the worry ignited by what she said after being asked to be taken home. That "home" was now the bell tower to her was not lost on Quasimodo, but it did nothing to ease the knots in his stomach.

They stayed silent for a moment. He watched Sancha nurse her drink and gather her thoughts. Outside, the wind picked up and blew a howling draft through the tower.

"I do not know where to begin," Sancha said eventually.

She spoke into her mug, her downcast eyes brimming with shame. Quasimodo leaned his elbows on his folded legs and took her hand in his.

"Start from wherever you want," he told her.

And so, Sancha started at the beginning.

In her best French, she told him a story that would inspire even the most jaded of court minstrels: A French noblewoman, born and raised just outside of Paris, and a Spanish med student fell in love. Even when the student confessed to his lover that he was Jewish, the lady didn't care. She escaped an arranged marriage to a miserly old count by eloping with the student, scorning her noble roots and earning disownment from her family. A year later, they had a daughter, who was much too Jewish to be accepted by the Catholic majority, but not Hebrew enough to be completely accepted by the Sephardic community. And so, the girl grew into a woman, never knowing her place in society.

Sancha spoke of tension mounting between the Christian and Jewish communities, her hand tightening in his as she pushed on. The breaking point was an accusation of blood libel, made against the father's community by a powerful cardinal. Every Jew and convert had been arrested, except for the half-caste daughter, who escaped thanks to the foresight of her mother. She left her hometown with instruction to follow the Montmartre pilgrimage to Paris and stay at Notre Dame. By the time Sancha was done the story, she was shaking.

"I understand if you will not forgive me," she said, her voice calm but her eyes shiny with unshed tears. She stared at an empty space on the floor, but she never let go of his hand. "I kept this part of my life secret because it is dangerous to speak of… But I know now it was a mistake not to say it to you, and… I am so sorry…"

As she took a few shaky breaths, Quasimodo turned her story over in his mind. It all made sense now. Her worry for her parents, her evasiveness about her life in Toledo, why she reacted so badly to any slight against herself or people she cared for…

It would have been easy to be angry with her. She had, after all, lied by omission to him. But, Quasimodo couldn't find it in him to work up the emotion. In light of her story – and the fact that she was apologetic – the young man could only pity her fate and thank God that she had escaped the clutches of this Tomas de Tavera.

When she picked her gaze up to check his reaction, there was a terrible vulnerability in her eyes that made Quasimodo ache with protectiveness. She needed something from him – anything – that would indicate he understood. She wasn't seeking forgiveness; only empathy.

And, he empathized more than she knew. After a moment, he said to her, "You'll have to forgive me too. There's something I have to tell you now."

Just as Sancha had painted him a picture of where she had come from, Quasimodo did the same for her. He told her of a woman – a Romani – who tried desperately to save her child from the tyranny of a monster. Despite the mother's efforts, she died trying to save her son, and the babe fell under the care of her very murderer. The child grew into a man, sheltered but isolated, and only dared to defy his domineering master when he was twenty years of age by attending the Feast of the Epiphany (or, as it was colloquially known, the Festival of Fools). There, he met a girl from his mother's tribe, who was kind to him and taught him a valuable lesson about inner beauty and true monstrosity.

Just as Tavera had done to Sancha's community, the young man's master tore Paris apart in search of his charge's new friend. When he caught her, he almost burned her at the stake. Had the young man not acted in defiance one more time and saved the gypsy girl, his master would have succeeded. The act of heroism almost cost him his life too, but it had been worth the risk.

When Quasimodo was finished, Sancha was holding both his hands, squeezing them as if she was afraid he would let her go. Her lips were parted, and her eyes were wide with incredulity, despite the tears that dried in red tracts down her cheeks.

"You saved her life," Sancha whispered reverently.

Quasimodo looked away. He didn't like taking credit for such a grand statement. He had only acted as any good friend would.

"You did," she insisted. "It is nothing to deny, Quasimodo. You…" She touched his cheek, bringing his gaze back to her. "You risked your life for Esmeralda… If I had known, I would have never feared to tell you about my past. Truly, you are a good man."

He didn't know what to say except, "I'm sorry."

She blinked, taken aback. "No… No, no, do not apologize. It is me who is sorry. I should have had more faith to say…"

"I don't blame you for keeping what happened to you a secret, Sancha," he heard himself say.

She shook her head, a single tear running down her cheek. She didn't seem upset anymore but moved. "_Ay_, I have wanted to tell you for so long. That it is now…"

She was close, much closer than before. Sancha was leaning towards him, one hand on his cheek and the other splayed out by his knee. Her proximity made his heart race.

"Sancha…?"

"You do not… hate me, do you?"

"No!" Quasimodo let his hand fall over hers. "No, not at all. I could never…I-I hope you don't either."

"How…?" she breathed, her eyes searching his face.

"How what?"

"How could I hate you?" The very idea seemed to disturb her, if the stricken look on her face was any indication. "Because you did not tell me of your horrible master? Or that your parents were _gitanos_? After I tell you my father was a _hebreo*_ and my mother was a disgrace to her family?"

The bell ringer tried to think of a response, but Sancha wasn't finished yet.

"_Ay_, Quasimodo, you are a difficult man to hate. When I had no friends in this city, it was you who stayed with me, even after I acted as an _idiota*_. When I lost my sleeping place in the church, it was you who let me rest in your tower. And it was you who came to look for me this night when I would not have given a care if I froze to death. You are kind, even when you do not have to be, and it is that thing that makes you _hermoso*_…"

She shook her head and swallowed down a sob. "_Guay de mí_, but you do not see what I see…"

Silence filled the bell tower. Even the pigeons stopped rustling, and the wind died down. Quasimodo stared at her, speechless, his mouth open but without words at the ready. He couldn't remember a time in his life when anyone spoke to him like that. Not even Esmeralda had said those things to him. His first instinct was to deny everything she said, but the look in Sancha's eyes warned him against it. In fact, he had never seen such an expression on her face: A potent mix of sadness, sincerity, and… something else he couldn't name. Something that both frightened and enthralled him.

The intensity of her gaze made him self-conscious. The young man looked at his lap but didn't dare move away from her.

"Quasimodo?"

Sancha said his name gently, her voice barely above a whisper. The sound of his name on her tongue made his heart throw itself against his chest. Swallowing down hard, he looked up only to brush her nose with his. He saw his incredulous reflection in Sancha's dark brown eyes for only a moment before she closed them and pressed her lips to his.

Quasimodo froze, his eyes wide and unblinking. He completely expected Sancha to recoil and explain away the slip in her balance at any moment.

But, that moment never came. The girl kissed him, tearing down the walls of denial he had formed around anything and everything having to do with her. Her lips warmed him through and thawed him out the initial shock. Quasimodo almost didn't want to close his eyes, half-worried she would disappear if he did. Nevertheless, something told him to follow her example, and the world faded to black. Only her touch kept him anchored in the darkness.

Quasimodo tried to kiss her back, though he had no idea what he was doing. Sancha didn't seem to notice or care. She leaned into him, enticing him to hold her as close as he dared. A wonderfully terrible ache bloomed in his chest and spread through him, stifling his breath and colouring his cheeks. When Sancha bit his lower lip, he gasped in surprise. She reeled back instantly, her eyes round and alarmed.

"I'm sorry!" she panted. "Did I hurt you?"

He blinked, momentarily disoriented. He was back in the bell tower, sitting on Sancha's palette, while the firelight from a single candle lit up her concerned face.

"N-No," he stammered.

She was quiet for a moment, staring up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. This time, Quasimodo couldn't look away, even if he tried.

"Would…" She hesitated, but only for a moment. "Would you let me do it again?"

Do what again, he had to wonder. Bite him? Kiss him? Prove to him again that he wasn't dreaming? Whatever it was, he found himself nodding. Sancha could have asked him to bring her the moon, and he would've said yes.

Smiling, the young woman all but threw herself into him, her lips crashing against his in a passionate kiss. This time, he didn't hesitate in drawing her as close as he wanted.

* * *

***_Entre la mar y el pinasco_: "Between the sea and the stone"**

**_Mos creció un arbol de clavo_: A clove tree grew**

**_Ay, échate a la mar_: Alas, throw yourself into the sea**

**É_chate a la mar y alcansa_: Take to the sea and go to him"**

***The second song (the one Sancha and Lazar sing) is a lot to translate, but if anyone is interested, it's called "Avrix mi galanica", and there are plenty of translations on the internet**

***"**_**Shalom, mi hermana": **_**"Hello, my sister"**

***_Hazzan: _A Jewish musician who leads the congregation in songful prayer**

***_Hebreo_: A Hebrew (male)**

***_Idiota: _An idiot (female)**

_***Hermoso:**_** Beautiful / handsome (male)**

**Phew! Any more notes, and I'll need a separate fic just for the glossary... Anyway, as always, thank you so much reading! Until next time... **


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello again, dear readers. Before we start, I just want to thank you all for the reviews, comments, and PMs. They really make my day and let me know I'm on the right track! **

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

_**"Amores que prohibio**_

_**La lei del Dio**_

_**En pekado vas a estar**_

_**No te va a pedronar."***_

_'Esterika Serfati,' Al-Andaluz Project_

When Sancha woke up the next day, she could hardly open her eyes. They were nearly swollen shut, still puffy and red from last night's many tears. She rubbed her face, wincing at the sting behind her eyes, and blinked away the last cobwebs of sleep. Beside her, a body stirred and mumbled something sleepy and unintelligible.

She glanced over to see Quasimodo stretched out next to her, his hunched back facing her, his tunic bunched up underneath him. Sancha watched the rise and fall of his uneven shoulders, trying to remember who fell asleep first last night. They had stayed up talking past Matins, and the last thing she recalled was lying on her side, telling him something about the goings-on at the synagogue before she left Toledo.

Careful not to make too much noise, she pulled the blanket over Quasimodo's shoulders, found her shoes, and snuck off the church.

Notre Dame was empty. Not even the archdeacon was puttering around the altar. The vast silence was nothing short of intimidating, but there was a kind of peace in the incense-laden air as well. Sancha was also just glad to be alone for a moment.

The young woman made her way over to the line of devotional candles near the nave and took a matchstick from the nearby box. She lit a candle and stared into the immobile yellow flame.

She had been unburdened from so much yesterday, but she was not yet free from the grief of losing her parents. She had become adept at living in denial, but that simply wouldn't serve her anymore. Acceptance was the only way to go now, and the journey began with the lighting of a candle in memory of Lady Jeanne de Beaumont.

The candle flame blurred as tears stung Sancha's eyes. She knelt, clasped her hands together, and whispered a little prayer for her mother's soul. She asked the Christian god to show Jeanne mercy, and to consider the martyrdom she suffered to save her only daughter.

When she was done, Sancha rose, wiped her cheeks, and lit the tallest candle she could find. She wasn't sure if the one she chose would last the requisite 24 hours, but it would have to do. When the flame caught, the girl dropped the matchstick, folded her hands, and let the warmth of her makeshift _yahrzeit _candle* bathe her face. Quietly, she recited her father's favorite Torah verse as best as she could remember, hoping Avram's god would forgive her for forgetting a few lines. When she was done, she silently asked Him to keep her father's soul close and unite her parents in the afterlife again.

After this, Sancha took a seat in one of the empty pews and waited for the wave of grief to recede. She knew she had to move on with her life now, but she didn't know how. She had no one to guide her anymore, and no access to any familial wealth. Pawning off her jewelry would only grant her so many meals, and she didn't like the idea of living off the church's charity for the rest of her days. Now that she was alone in the world, Sancha had to fend for herself and earn a living somehow. And, she had to find it before she'd be forced to part with her emerald ring, which had been a gift from her mother on the day of her baptism. Sancha would sooner cut her hair off.

Looking up at the vaulted ceiling, she thanked whoever was listening for the magnificent roof over her head. At least she could count on having a place to rest in the bell tower.

Despite her sadness, the memory of who she left sleeping in the tower coaxed a smile from her lips. Never in all her eighteen years had she acted so boldly. And yet, she didn't regret the first kiss, nor the many that followed.

Sancha touched her lips, warming her fingers. She had never kissed anyone before. She imagined she was just as surprised at herself as Quasimodo was. Still, after accepting the truth about her family's fate last night, she also accepted another hidden truth about herself: She had wanted to kiss her companion for a long time. She couldn't say when, or why, but somewhere in the past few weeks, she had come to see Quasimodo not as a monster or a creature worth her pity, but only as a man. Something she couldn't quite name had started to blind her to his outward appearance, and whatever that 'something' was, it was the reason she kissed him. And, despite her nervousness about making the first move, it felt nice.

It felt _right_.

When she made her way back to the bell tower, Sancha found Quasimodo was already awake and sitting at his worktable. He was handling a half-finished figurine when he turned around at the sound of her approach. His eyes were wide and bright, despite the dark circles underneath.

"Oh, you're back!"

He sounded surprised and almost a bit relieved. Sancha grinned and folded her hands behind her back, scuffing her toe in feigned meekness.

"Did you think I ran off?" she teased.

"Well… Maybe…"

Her face fell when she realized he was serious. Her footfalls echoed through the tower as she walked over to him. To his more-than-apparent surprise, she didn't stand before him or even sit down next to him. Instead, Sancha did something she had seen depicted in romance manuscript illuminations: Knelt down in front of him and rested her arms over his knees, whereupon she leaned her chin. She caught his incredulous gaze in hers and held him captive there. Had this been any other situation, with any other man, her forwardness would have been shockingly unladylike. But, she wanted him to see how serious she was.

"If you were ever to hurt me, or treat me cruelly, then I will run off," she murmured. "But until that day arrives, I will never run away from you."

Quasimodo's expression immediately went from shocked to horrified. "I would never – !"

"Then you should not worry," she interrupted gently. "I will stay here until you wish to be rid of me."

"I… I don't want you to go," he said quietly. Sancha inclined her chin a little and offered him a smile.

"Good. I don't wish to go either."

She turned her head and rested her cheek on her arms, eyes fluttering closed to enjoy the tranquility between them. After a moment, she felt Quasimodo relax, and she couldn't keep her smile from widening when she felt a large, gentle hand caress the back of her head.

"I did not mean to frighten you," she whispered after a moment. "I meant to pray for my parents downstairs before you awoke."

"Oh…" There was a sad note of realization in his voice. "I-I'm sorry, Sancha…"

She shrugged and gave the side of his leg a reassuring squeeze. "It was a _malentendido.*_ I hope you understand I would not simply run away after…"

She trailed off, unsure of how to finish the rest of that sentence. What was she supposed to say? After she kissed him? After he kissed her back? After she realized she wanted to stay with him for as long as he would have her? She raised her head just in time to see Quasimodo avert his gaze from her, a telling colour in his cheeks.

"What is wrong?" she asked.

He shook his head, still not looking at her. "I thought… maybe you would. And I thought I wouldn't blame you if you did…"

Sancha looked up at him, a pang of sadness cutting through her. Was he still so unsure of her feelings for him? She thought back to the story he told her of his upbringing, and she silently cursed Claude Frollo for raising his charge to feel so unlovable.

"I was not lying last night," she told him gently. "I said those things to you because they are true. It was not an accident that I kissed you, Quasimodo. I wished for it."

Finally, he looked at her but seemed at a loss for words. It was as if he had no idea what to do with this information and thought it better to disbelieve her than get his hopes up. As the silence dragged on, a troublesome idea came to Sancha, and she suddenly sat a little straighter.

"_Ay_… Did you not wish to kiss me?"

"What?" The very suggestion seemed to worry him. "N-No, I-I did… Of course I did. I just don't know why…"

_"Why you kissed me"_, Sancha finished for him in her head. The worst part about this was that there was not a hint of self-pity or manipulation to be found in his voice; Quasimodo genuinely couldn't understand why Sancha wanted to be close to him. With a sigh, Sancha leaned on his legs again and chose a different approach.

"I may ask you the same," she said. "Why did _you_ not run from _me_?"

He looked at her as if she had just asked him what colour the sky was. "Why would I? You're…"

"A Jewess accused of ritualized murder," she offered.

"But you're not a murderer. I _know_ you're not."

Quasimodo took her hands, covering them completely with his own. "I don't care what anyone else says about your father's people. I know who you are, and I don't see you as Spanish, or French, or Catholic, or even Jewish... You're..." He searched her face, as if the words he was looking would be in her eyes. "You mean a lot to me."

"And so I feel the same of you," Sancha told him softly. She brushed his bangs out of his good eye, her fingertips grazing his forehead. "You look at me and see only Sancha. I look at you and see only Quasimodo."

She rose up on her knees and made her point with a soft kiss. When she drew away, she added in a husky voice, "And that is the answer to your 'why', _cariño*_."

He didn't say anything in response, but the lopsided smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth and the slight haze in his eyes spoke volumes. Satisfied, she winked at him and got to her feet.

"_Bueno_, I am going to make breakfast. Do you want any?"

"I – uh – y-yes, please… Thank you."

As she gathered their plates, Sancha turned the exchange over in her mind. She was happy with their talk, but she was a little sad Quasimodo had needed to be convinced of her affections. Anger towards his foster father rose in her heart and heated the back of her neck, but she forced herself to tamp it down. Frollo was dead, and Quasimodo was free of his tyranny. There was no use getting angry at the past, now.

When she could think clearly again, Sancha silently resigned herself to the fact that years of isolation and torment would not be undone with one night of closeness. She accepted it would take some time for Quasimodo to really believe she wanted to hold his hand, embrace him, kiss him, stay with him…

Sancha decided she didn't mind, though. She was happy to demonstrate her feelings as often as he needed reminding.

XXX

Night had fallen over Toledo, and from his balcony, Tomas de Tavera could see the smoke rising from the pyres in the square. He watched the tendrils curl and disappear into the evening air, blotting out the first stars that appeared in the lavender-blue sky. He inhaled deeply and sent a silent prayer up to the Lord on that smoke, hoping He was watching the good work Tavera was doing.

Travel preparations were nearly complete, and once the last of the executions were done, he would leave for France. Tavera gripped the balustrade, his nails digging into the wood. The image of Jeanne de Beaumont's daughter, peeking clandestinely around the corner, was burned into his memory. She was a small thing, not much taller than his own palfrey, and yet she had outrun two of his best men. Impotent rage and restlessness burned his stomach and boiled his blood. The little Jewess might have bought herself time, but just as the hand of God smote Sodom and Gomorrah for their sins, so too would Tavera bring her to justice for her complicity in Alfonso's murder.

The cardinal's fury melted away and pooled in his legs, a stinking swamp of sullenness and sorrow. Weak in the knees, he leaned his elbows on the balustrade and closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw the small, blonde head of his son, tottering off in the courtyard to pick flowers and chase the sparrows. How long had it been since he saw that image? How long since he was able to pick the child up in his arms and look upon a face that bore his nose and Leoncia's eyes? He could almost hear the last words his son said to him…

_"Papa, look at the clouds!"_

Tavera raised his head and blinked away the tears that threatened to fall. He looked down beside him, and through his blurry vision, he could have sworn he saw Alfonso's bright blue eyes looking up at him, his chubby little finger pointing to the sky.

"My boy…" he murmured. "Oh, Alfonso…"

Tavera reached out, bending over to touch the back of his son's head, when the sound of approaching footsteps broke him out of his trance. He straightened immediately and turned his back to the patio doors, indescribably irritated with the wretch who dared to disturb him.

Watching the horizon, he said to the intruder, "You have one minute to tell me why you are here, or I'll have you thrown on the pyre with the rest of them."

"Is it true that you're leaving for Paris?"

Tavera spun around, only to see Leoncia de la Vega standing in his doorway. The woman of five and twenty years stared unblinkingly into his eyes, her blue gaze blazing with a fury he had never seen before. Her hands were balled into fists at her side, as if she intended to strike him at any moment.

Tavera wasn't sure what surprised him more: Her appearance in his apartments or the fact that she was up by herself.

"Leoncia – "

"Is it true?" she repeated through gritted teeth.

Tavera glared at her. He never liked it when women took such a tone. "Yes, it is. I leave in two days, and that will be the end of it."

"Why?" she demanded.

"Why do you think?" He turned back to the horizon.

"I've heard rumours," she said, striding up next to him. "They say Cardinal Tavera has lost his mind, that he's dragging his soldiers and the Inquisition up to France for the sake of one Hebrew girl."

"Let 'them' talk," Tavera said, his eyes fixed on the billowing smoke. "I walk in the footsteps of the Almighty. I won't be deterred from this."

"It is one Jewess," Leoncia barked. "One left the kingdom, and you insist on going after her? Why, Tomas? She is out of Spain and out of our lives. She's as good as dead to you and me."

Tavera turned and grabbed Leoncia's wrists. He forced her to back up from him and said in a snarling voice, "Do not test me, woman. You know as well as I why I must do this. Our son was murdered, and if I let even a single Jew go – "

"You've got them all!" Leoncia bawled, her eyes filling with tears. "Look" – she gestured to the billowing smoke – "You have done your duty, Tomas. This runaway won't make a difference. For God's sake, you haven't stopped since Alfonso…"

The tears spilled over and Leoncia's face crumpled. She bowed her head and sobbed, loud and unrestrained. With a sigh, Tavera dropped her wrists and gathered her in his arms, hushing her patiently.

"_Mi alma*_, it is my penance walk," he whispered.

"I don't want you to go," she managed. "Stay here… Stay with me… I've missed you, Tomas…"

Tavera nodded and held her close, inhaling her light, airy scent. "It's a cross we must bear. We have sinned, and God has shown his displeasure. I have to go and make things right."

The two parents stayed on the balcony for a moment, locked in each other's arms, trying desperately to quell their grief. More stars appeared as the sky grew darker, but neither were able to see; the smoke all but covered Toledo now.

"Go if you must," Leoncia muttered eventually. "Whatever you do, do it for the sake of my son's soul. I sometimes fear he never made it to Heaven, and I… would rather die than see him suffer eternally for what we've done."

Tavera raised his head and set his dark gaze North, where the smoke had not yet reached. "Yes," he said slowly. The image of the doe-eyed Jewess arose in his mind again. "If anyone is going to die for our son, Leoncia, it will not be you."

* * *

*"_**Amores que prohibio: **_**This love is prohibited**

_**La lei del Dio: **_**By the law of God**

_**En pekado vas a estar: **_**You are living in sin**

_**No te va a pedronar": **_**This won't be forgiven**

**** Please note there is no English translation for 'Esterika Serfati' on the internet (as far as I could find, anyway), so this translation is a concentrated effort between myself and Google Translate. It's probably a very loose/slightly inaccurate version of what the song is trying to say.**

*****_**yahrzeit candle: **_**A candle lit in a deceased person's memory as part of the Jewish bereavement process**

*******_malentendido: _A misunderstanding**

***_cariño: _A Spanish term of endearment similar to "honey" or "sweetie" in English**

*******_Mi alma_: literally means "my soul", but is used as a term of endearment similar to "beloved" or "my love"**

**Also, I think it's worth mentioning that I know the Jewish bereavement process is rather complicated and has multiple steps. I may not have accurately represented what a Jewish girl in the Middle Ages would have done in the face of a death in her family, but I tried my best with the information I could gather. If I've really missed the mark in the scene where Sancha lights her memorial candles, I invite my more knowledgeable readers to tell me. I'll update the chapter if need be. **

**As always, thank you so much again for reading! **


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: Welcome back, dear reader. Hope you had a lovely week and are ready for another chapter - Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

_**"I swear it must be Heaven's light…"**_

_'Heaven's Light', Hunchback of Notre Dame_

There was still at least an hour left of sunlight, but Sancha hurried home as if there were only five minutes. Her satchel jingled with her earnings for the day, the result of washing the linens of the wool merchants' wife. She apparently had taken pity on Sancha when the latter showed up on her doorsteps asking for work that day. Now that she had earned her room and board, Sancha was more than anxious to get indoors and off the street.

She all but ran around a corner and collided into someone much taller than her. Fully expecting a fight, Sancha looked up to see a man with jaw-length blonde hair, an angular face, and dark eyes. Sancha recognized him immediately as Esmeralda's husband, Phoebus, who she had met the same day she accompanied his wife to the blacksmith.

"Where's the fire, Sancha?" he laughed as he steadied her.

She smiled sheepishly at him. "I only mean to get home before curfew." And, with a shy laugh, she added, "I cannot break it again."

Phoebus nodded, a measure of solemnity softening his features. "Esmeralda told me what happened that night. My condolences."

His words settled over Sancha like the top half of a stock, weighing her shoulders down. "Thank you. Quasimodo told me you left that night to look for me… It was kind of you."

Phoebus smiled demurely and looked her once over. "Are you doing all right?"

She shrugged. "I cannot spend my life in mourning. I will be fine as time continues."

She meant it, too. It had been almost three weeks since that fateful night, and though she still had moments of pain that were nearly unbearable, they were becoming fewer and far between. As she established a routine that did not involved waiting for her parents, Sancha was becoming more and more accustomed to life in Paris. She found joy in waking up to the bells and setting out each day to find meaningful work. Even speaking French came easier to her than ever before.

"That's the spirit," Phoebus said, patting her shoulder. "Besides, it's the Feast of the Nativity tomorrow. You should be enjoying yourself."

Sancha looked down at her feet, a frown tugging at her mouth. "Yes… That's why I must go home. Before anything happens…"

"Before what happens?"

"I do not know if it is the same thing in France," Sancha started slowly, "but the Nativity was always a… strange time for my family in Spain."

She raised her head and gave him a sad look. "Sometimes it was safe to go out, but other times it was not."

Phoebus inclined his chin, his eyes understanding but no less troubled. Sancha had heard from Quasimodo that Esmeralda's husband was the former Captain of the Guard, and that he had lost his position after refusing to participate in Frollo's persecution of the gypsies. Surely, he was a worldly man, and he must have known the same breed of evil was routinely visited upon the Jews of Europe. Depending on the timing, it was very easy for them to get hurt, and the Feast of the Nativity was a prime time of year for violence to break out in Toledo's _judería_.

Lowering his voice, Phoebus said, "The Jews were expelled from France over eighty years ago. No one will be looking for a fight as long as you don't give them a reason to suspect you – And that means walking home at a normal pace. Remember, curfew's at least another hour from now, so there's no reason for you to worry."

Sancha drew in a calming breath and fought off the wave of embarrassment that threatened to sweep her away. "Thank you, Phoebus. I suppose it is silly to be so frightened."

"There's nothing wrong with a little caution," he told her with a wink. "Just don't worry yourself sick. Go home and enjoy the night. It's supposed to be a time of rest and recreation, anyway."

Smiling, Sancha nodded in agreement, and they bade goodbye to one another. As she set off down the road, Sancha called over her shoulder, "I hope to see you and Esmeralda soon! I'll speak with Quasimodo, and perhaps we can all meet another time."

Phoebus watched the young woman leave, turning the girl's suggestion over in his mind. Since when did she start making plans on behalf of herself and the bell ringer? As he set off back to the caravans, Phoebus smiled as he remembered a conversation he had with Esmeralda not long after they met Sancha.

_"That girl is in love,"_ she had said.

_"With?"_

_"Our friend."_

Phoebus had known exactly who his wife was talking about, just by the intonation of her voice. Admittedly, he was a little surprised by this inference.

_"How do you know? Did she tell you?"_

_"No, it was the way she talked about him, and… It was in her eyes… There was something there, I could just tell…"_

_"Huh…"_

_"It's hard to explain…"_ Esmeralda had relented, and with a sigh, she added, _"I don't think she's even aware of it herself."_

Phoebus chuckled when he remembered the look in Sancha's eyes when they parted. As she called out to him over her shoulder, there had indeed been something there, a glimmer in her soft brown eyes that lit up he whole face. As he neared his home, Phoebus considered the look again, and wondered if he should tell Esmeralda that Sancha more than likely figured it out by now.

XXX

The bell tower was lit up with the soft light of a few candles when Sancha arrived. She peeked over the ladder of the mezzanine to see Quasimodo had finished his chores and was seated at his worktable. A paintbrush was balanced between his fingers, his other hand holding up the figurine of a minstrel. He was deeply concentrated on his work, and Sancha tried to be quiet as she pulled herself up onto the platform.

_"Buenas tardes,_" she said quietly.

Thankfully she didn't startle him. Quasimodo turned around, his face softening when he saw her. He set the figure down and rose to embrace her, as he always did when she came back in from town.

"Any luck today?" he asked as she settled down next to him.

"Yes, I got very lucky. _Madame le Marchand*_ needed her laundry done. My hands were nearly freezing in the Seine, but I was paid well for my trouble."

A look of concern crossing his face, Quasimodo caught her hands in his. "Be careful, Sancha. That's an easy way to get frostbite."

"You are sweet to worry." She kissed him on the forehead. "But I am fine. After all, it is a good thing that I earned my pottage tonight."

The gold coins the merchant's wife had paid Sancha bought her more than just good soup. After dinner, as she cleared away the dishes and Quasimodo went to ring Evening Mass, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure her satchel was where she left it. The girl smiled, knowing what was hidden therein. She hurried through the washing, grabbed the bag, and joined Quasimodo up on the second platform as the bells' song came to an end.

"I didn't mean to keep you waiting," he said as he came down to her eye-level. "Did you want to go to Mass?"

That was something they had taken to doing recently. As the days grew shorter, and work was less frequent, the two of them sometimes attended the later offices. Sancha didn't know a lick of Latin, but she enjoyed just sitting in the grand cathedral, watching the proceedings with Quasimodo by her side. It often brought her a sense of peace and contentedness, but this time, she shook his head.

"I hope you will forgive me, but I do not feel like going to Mass tonight."

She clutched the handle of her satchel, twisting the leather strap in her sweaty palm. Why was she so nervous?

"Oh. That's fine." Quasimodo smiled at her. "We can stay here if you're tired."

"_Realmente,_ I…" Sancha looked down and watched her hands open the satchel. She fished about in it for a moment before her fingers closed around what she was looking for. She almost breathed a sigh of relief – Nothing had spilled.

"I… wished to give you this."

She held out her hand, palming the gift: A small pot of red paint. She watched with a growing smile as Quasimodo's eyes widened. He gingerly took the pot from her, his thumb running over the cork that sealed the pigment inside.

"Sancha…." he whispered.

"I-I noticed that you were missing the colour," she said, her eyes going straight to her boots. "I hope it is the right shade… I tried to tell the _monje*_ how your other paint looked, _pero_…"

She wasn't explaining herself well, and she cursed herself for being so nervous. She was never good at giving gifts, but she had wanted to do something nice for him. Day and night, she watched him work on the miniature replica of Paris, and thought it was a shame that he had recently run out of red paint.

Quasimodo didn't seem to notice (or care about) her stumbling. The surprise melted from his face as a wide smile broke the surface. He pocketed the gift and gently pulled Sancha into his arms. A soft, sweet kiss landed on her lips, and she instantly relaxed.

"Thank you, Sancha," he said. "You didn't have to trouble yourself, though."

"Trouble? _No seas tonto,*_" she said, brushing his bangs out of his good eye. She saw her reflection in its blue-grey depths, a blushing girl of eighteen who didn't know much about courting but was trying her best.

Quasimodo held onto her a little longer, his eyes speaking a world of gratitude that his words couldn't convey. The expression made Sancha's breath suddenly hitch in her throat, her skin prickling with a not-completely unpleasant heat. For a moment, she genuinely wished he would never let her go.

Still, they had to separate at some point. The bell ringer took a step away from her but didn't let go of her hands. "Follow me. I want to show you where the rest of the red paint went."

Nodding, Sancha set down her satchel and followed Quasimodo up one of the nearby ladders. On the higher platform, he grabbed a candle from one of the sconces, and motioned her towards the spare bell she had rung a lifetime ago. He glanced over his shoulder at Sancha, and she returned his smile with a quirked eyebrow and an uncertain little giggle.

"That bell does not look red to me, _cariño_."

"That's what this is for." He held up the candle. "It's on the inside of the bell."

More questions popped into Sancha's mind, but she decided to hold her tongue and accept the candle from Quasimodo, watching as he pushed the bell up. He motioned with a shake of his head.

"Go on under," he told her. "Just be careful with the flame."

Balancing the candle in her hand, Sancha lowered herself down and crawled under the bell, ducking her head as Quasimodo slowly lowered it back to its original position. She sat on the floor, her knees tucked up to her chest, and waited for him to join her in the near darkness. Quasimodo moved to avoid hitting the clapper and took the candle from her, illuminating the heavy brass roof over them.

"There" – He pointed to the lip of the soundbow – "Can you see it?"

Sancha moved closer to him and squinted. There was a word scrawled in bold red letters on the inside of the bell. The penmanship was as precise as any scribe's, and the wording shone slightly in the candlelight. Fresh paint. She smiled wanly and looked over at him, her nose inches away from him.

"That is impressive," she said. "But you know I cannot read. What is it?"

"That's your name."

Silence crashed around them, the cover of the bell drowning out all sound except for Sancha's stuttering heartbeat. The air was suddenly as still as a pond in early morning, and not even the candle flame dared to move.

"M… My name?" She glanced back at the word, the pretty mess of scribbles. "That is my name?"

"Yes, it is. Look, I'll show you." Quasimodo pointed to each individual letter as he sounded out, "S-A-N-C-H-A… That's what it looks like written down."

The girl was speechless, staring at her name with parted lips. Absentmindedly, she traced her finger under the first letter. Her hand was shaking.

She had never seen her own name before. She had heard it many times, in happy, angry, sad, and fearful tones. She had even heard it screamed out by authority figures when she was caught misbehaving. But, despite knowing a few literate people in Toledo, no one ever showed her what 'Sancha' looked like written down. And now here it was, permanently branded on the side of a bell that belonged to Notre Dame de Paris. It was the identity of a real person, a soul who had not yet been stamped off the face of the earth, despite all efforts.

"I-I noticed you're always sitting by this bell when you sew, and she doesn't have a name yet, a-and you did ring her, after all," Quasimodo explained, rushing to fill the silence. After a moment, he ventured, "Do you like it…?"

Sancha swallowed down hard as her vision began to blur. Any words she wanted to say were drowned by a flood of emotions. Her heart swelled with the current and strained against her chest, cutting her breath short.

Instead of answering him, Sancha turned and gave him a slow, burning kiss. He froze for a moment, surprised by her reaction, but quickly relaxed and brought his arms around her. Sancha drew away from him eventually, but only because she felt as if she 'had to.' She bit down on the inside of her lip, struggling to tamp down the urge to go for another kiss.

"You do not know what this means to me," she murmured. "Thank you."

Quasimodo smiled as she shifted to lean her head into the dip of his neck. He let a heavy arm fall over her shoulder and draw her closer. "You're welcome."

The two of them sat under the bell in silence for a moment, minding the candle and gazing up at Quasimodo's handiwork. Outside, the wind howled, and a light snow began to fall, but Sancha was as comfortable as could be. She let her eyes close, letting her thoughts wander where they pleased.

As usual that past week, they wandered back to a part of her that she kept secret and locked away from polite society. When she realized what she was doing, Sancha's eyes flew open. Still, the troublesome thoughts would not leave her alone. They ran in succession in her head, imagined scenarios and wishful thinking, setting her skin alight again and pushing her to acknowledge what she had been denying for a while now: A strong and unrelenting need, something her mother had warned her to save for her future husband.

With each passing day, though, Sancha had found the wait more and more unbearable. And why should she have to wait, her conscience had asked many times over. She knew where her heart lay, and what she wanted… Or rather, _who_ she wanted…

Sancha drew in a deep breath and turned her face towards the crook of Quasimodo's neck. Without thinking, she gave him a kiss, starting a trail at his collarbone and tracing her lips up to his ear. She gently nipped at his earlobe, and Quasimodo's laugh echoed through the bowl of the bell.

"That tickles, Sancha."

She bared her teeth teasingly, and they laughed together. When their voices died down, they looked at each other for a quiet moment, and before the silence could drag on too long, Sancha heard herself say, "I wish to go to bed."

Her arms broke out in goosebumps as the words left her mouth. The heat in her face was hard to ignore, and she imagined she looked as red as the lettering on the spare bell. Alas, there it was – She was doing exactly what her mother had told her not to do, and she didn't care.

Quasimodo was completely unaware of Sancha's inner torment. In perfect obliviousness, he gave her a chaste peck on the cheek before saying, "All right. It's getting late, anyway."

They crawled out from under the bell, replaced the candle in its rightful sconce, and descended to the mezzanine. They extinguished the candles as they went, until the only light that remained in the tower was from the full moon. Its cool, pale beams spilled over the floorboards and lit up the walls in calming shades of white and blue.

Once on the lower platform, Sancha didn't move from the middle of the 'room'. If this were any other time, she would give him a kiss goodnight and retire to her palette alone. Instead, she stood in defiance (on numb legs, no less) to this expectation and waited for Quasimodo to notice what she was doing. He was halfway up the ladder to his own sleeping area before he realized Sancha was not going to bed.

"What's wrong?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Nothing."

He dropped down from the ladder and approached her, confusion pulling his uneven brow taut. Summoning her courage, Sancha reached out to him, her fingers splayed and shivering slightly.

"Come," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The bell ringer looked at her hand, then up at her, questions dancing in his eyes. Sancha offered him a soft smile and pretended not to be nervous about what she was asking.

"Come with me."

She stepped towards him, her hand still outstretched and inviting. A moment passed as the two of them gazed expectantly at each other, before understanding dawned on Quasimodo's face.

Sancha didn't know what kind of reaction she was expecting, but unadulterated terror was not one of them.

"Wh-What?" he stammered. "Do you mean –? Sancha, I don't th-think you know what you're… A-Are you really… Do you know what you're…?"

_"Venga ya*,_ Quasimodo, you act as if I am asking you to depose the king for me. I ask only for you to… to stay with me this night."

Slowly, she approached him and took his hand, which was trembling as well. "If you do not wish to, you may tell me," she said softly. "It is fine to say no."

"It's not…" He looked away from her, his poor cheeks a brilliant shade of red. "It's not that… I…"

She waited patiently as he gathered his thoughts, her thumb stroking the back of his hand. After a beat, he blew out a breath and finally turned his gaze on her, which was equal parts confused and concerned.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice quiet.

She grinned at her shoes. "And so are you."

"But, why…?"

Sancha shushed him gently, before he forced himself to say anything too self-deprecating. "Quasimodo, I am a grown woman, and I know well what I am asking. Please do not doubt my _convicción*_. I have been thinking of this for some time, and I know my decision."

She leaned in and cupped his chin with her free hand, gently making him look at her. She locked her soft, dark gaze on his, ignoring the swooping sensation in her stomach.

"What I ask to know now is if you wish it as well. I cannot convince you, and I do not wish to if you are not ready. I can only be truthful with you in what I want."

He stared at her, incredulity shimmering in his gaze. "… Me?"

The word fell from his lips like a dirty secret, whispered and quick. She nodded, swallowing down her nerves again.

"_Sí._ More than anything."

Sancha's cheeks burned something fierce. She had never spoken so plainly before, and certainly not on these kinds of matters. Still, it had to be said, and she waited as patiently as she could while Quasimodo silently worked through his disbelief. At this point, she could only guess at what he was really thinking. She only hoped that whatever answer he gave her reflected his true feelings.

The silence wore on, but Sancha refused to move before she heard a clear yes or no. Eventually, Quasimodo traced a hand up her arm, his thumb running over her forearm. His eyes never left hers.

"You're sure…?" he breathed.

"Quite sure," Sancha promised, her heart leaping into her throat. "But, are you?"

With a deep breath, Quasimodo slowly nodded. "Y-Yes… Yes, I am."

A cloud from moved away from the moon and threw a pathway of light through the mezzanine. Sancha took a careful step backwards. She didn't let go of Quasimodo's hand, and he matched her movement. Again, she stepped back, and again, he followed. He still wore the expression of a man who had just witnessed an act of God, but he seemed more fascinated than shocked now.

She led him out of the moonlight and into the warm, welcoming darkness of her bedroom. She knelt by the palette and brought him down with her, tugging gently on his arms. As she pushed aside her blankets, Quasimodo awkwardly cleared his throat and said in a constricted voice, "Sancha, you should know, I haven't – I mean, I've n-never done... this."

"_No te preocupes, mi alma_."*

She leaned her forehead on his, her breath ghosting over his lips. "Neither have I. We shall go slow. Is that all right with you?"

He only nodded, swallowing with nervous anticipation. Sancha gave him a quick, reassuring kiss before she rose again to undo the curtain. She glanced around the bell tower, as if warning the shadows to keep away from them, and she sent up a prayer to whoever was listening that she would do right by the man who had come to mean so much to her.

With that, Sancha unpinned the curtain and let it fall.

* * *

**_*M_****_adame le Marchand_**_: _**"Mrs. Merchant", a (grammatically incorrect) nickname Sancha gave to the wool merchant's wife**

*******_monje: _A monk. Ecclesiastics in the Middle Ages usually knew how to prepare paint, since they used it to illuminate manuscripts**

***_"No seas tonto"_: "Don't be silly"**

_***"Venga ya": **_**"Come now" or "Come on"**

***_convicción_: conviction**

***_"No te preocupes, mi alma"_: "Don't worry, my love"**

**I hope you dear readers found this chapter sweet and satisfying! I hope you'll forgive me for "closing the door" on Quasimodo and Sancha, but keeping it open just wouldn't fit the tone of this story... That being said, thank you all once again for reading. Thank you as well to my reviewers and commenters :)**


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: Welcome to another chapter, dear reader. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - It really made my day!**

**Before we get on with the story, allow me to make a quick disclaimer. I know you, dear reader, are an intelligent and logical person, but I still feel compelled to put this out there: For the love of all that is holy (and not), please don't take anything in this chapter as medical advice. Should you or someone you know ever find yourself in a similar situation as Sancha in this chapter, go see a 21st century doctor who has had almost a decade of training and centuries of improved medical practice behind them.**

**Disclaimer over - On with the story!**

**Chapter Eleven**

**_"Que sons bons els blaus dels qui s'estimen"*_**

_'Shir Nashir', A Sephardic folk song_

Sancha woke up with the sun on her face. She blinked her eyes open and shielded her gaze. The bell tower was flooded with soft morning light, illuminating the dust particles floating overhead.

The young woman rolled over and reached out, only to find she was alone in the bed. For a moment, she stared at the empty space on the palette and the rumpled blanket. Had everything last night been a dream?

Slowly, Sancha looked around her room. Her dress was discarded in a crumpled heap on her side of the bed. Her shoes lay on opposite ends of the platform, where she had haphazardly kicked them off last night. She had no idea where her chemise was, and she was almost scared to go looking for it.

Sancha sat up, letting the blanket pool around her bare hips. Sighing, she hugged her arms and let her mind wander back a few hours, when the moonlight and darkness courted each other, and time fell away to nothing. Her skin warmed with memories of being held, being touched, whispering words she never thought she'd say…

With a heavy sigh, she fell back onto the palette and stared up at the rafters. A now-familiar ache bloomed somewhere deep within her and spread down to her legs, reaching down to tickle her toes. Sancha closed her eyes and listened to one of last night's exchanges replay in her head.

_"D-Did I hurt you?"_

_"No…"_ She had sighed the word, hardly aware she was speaking at all. _"No, not at all."_

Relief in his voice. _"Oh, okay… Good…"_

A smiled spread across Sancha's face as another memory surfaced.

_"Sancha…"_

_"S- Y-Yes?_"

She had become still, and calloused hands gripped her hips with a startling urgency.

_"No, don't stop… Please…"_

She didn't remember what was said after that, if anything at all. All she remembered was the warmth of his lips as they found hers in the darkness.

As these voices died down, another one amplified. It was unexpected, as it was neither hers or Quasimodo's, and she had not heard it in months: It was her mother.

_"In a church? A church? Sancha Bat Avram, have you no shame? You're not even married yet!"_

Sancha's eyes snapped open, her lust instantly evaporating. She reached down to her belly, where the blanket lay, and grabbed it. She intended to pull it up to her chin and cover herself, but after a moment's consideration, she left it where it was.

"I'm sorry, Mama," Sancha whispered in Ladino, "but this was my choice. If anyone has taught me that we can't always obey our parents, it was you."

And with that, Jeanne's angry voice fell silent. The girl laid there for a moment longer, with the sun on her chest and a grin on her face. Eventually, she found her chemise (it was half thrown over a broken icon of Saint Aphrodisius), shook out her dress, and retrieved her shoes. After pinning the curtain back and removing the candle wax from her ears, she made her way out of her room and into daylight.

She found Quasimodo outside, sitting on the balustrade between the two bell towers and looking contemplatively out at the city. He seemed so lost in thought he didn't hear Sancha approach. As she neared him, she crossed her arms and pretended to pout.

"_Ay_, now it is you who has run off on me," she murmured.

Quasimodo started slightly at the sound of her voice, but when he saw a smile threatening to break through her pout, he returned the look with a shy grin.

"I'm sorry," he said, and reached for her hand. "I had to get up for Matins, and I didn't want to disturb you."

"I barely heard the bells this morning," Sancha said as she settled down next to him. "You ought to be proud."

"Hm? Why?"

Sancha gave him a patient smile. "Because I was very tired."

A beat passed before the implication sunk in. Quasimodo blushed something furious and looked away from her. She giggled and linked her arm in his.

"I didn't intend to make fun," she said. "Don't feel embarrassed."

"I'm not," he insisted. "I just…"

He paused to collect his thoughts. His brow furrowed for a moment, but then his entire face softened, as if in mildly bewilderment. "I just thought… I never thought it'd happen to me."

Sancha frowned, her heart aching a little at these words. She wasn't at all surprised by this sentiment. His initial disbelief of her desire to sleep with him last night was telling enough. Nevertheless, knowing where these self-deprecating thoughts came from brought out a fierce sense of protectiveness in her. Willing it cool a little, she leaned her chin on his shoulder and squeezed his arm.

"I didn't know when my time would come either, or with who," she told him softly. "But it has happened with you, and I'm glad of it."

Slowly, Quasimodo met her gaze, and though the colour never left his cheeks, he seemed comforted. With a sheepish smile, he turned towards her and took both her hands.

"I'm glad too."

With that, Sancha closed the gap between them with a kiss, hoping the next time he came to bed with her would not be too far in the future –

Sancha broke off the kiss immediately, feeling as if someone had just kicked her off the ledge. She held onto Quasimodo for dear life as the balustrade swayed dangerously beneath her, looking past him as she remembered something very important.

Something she had completely forgotten about last night.

"_¡Joder…!_" she cursed under her breath.

"Sancha?" Quasimodo's voice sounded distant and muffled. "What's wrong?"

She blinked, his face coming back into focus. His eyes were wide with concern, and his lips were parted with an unvoiced question.

"I-I need to go to the apothecary," she stammered.

"Are you sick?" He pushed a few locks of her hair aside to feel her forehead.

"N-No, not quite. I just need to go right now. Before it's too late."

Without much more explanation, she hopped off the balustrade and rushed back the way she came. Quasimodo followed behind her as quickly as his bowed legs would carry him, and he watched her rush around the mezzanine, grabbing her cloak and questioning aloud where her satchel had gone. After a moment of this, he caught up to her in her bedroom, where she was strapping on her overshoes.

"Sancha, will you slow down and tell me what's wrong?" he pleaded, his voice gentle but earnest.

At the sound of his request, the girl seemed to come back to him a little and slowed to a halt before him in silence. Her right hand was balled into a fist, her thumb turning her emerald ring around her finger. She looked ready to run right past him, but Quasimodo refused to let himself believe she would. After everything they had talked about, after what they had _done_ last night, he knew she wouldn't just leave him cold. He knew Sancha better than that.

"Listen," she said eventually, "I know it is not a good thing to speak about, but it is very, very important that I go to the apothecary before the day is out. I have only begun to start my life in Paris…"

She looked down at her shoes, a troubled frown pulling at her full lips. "I cannot become a mother yet. Do you not feel the same?"

The weight of her words hit Quasimodo like an errant bell. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind last night, let alone this morning. The shock quickly gave way to an acute sense of guilt, and he silently berated himself for putting Sancha (and to a lesser extent, himself) in such a compromising position. Although he was more than a little inexperienced with these matters, he told himself he should have known better.

Unsure of what to say, he only nodded. He stepped aside as Sancha hurried past him. She called over her shoulder, "I won't take long, promise."

She all but leapt off the mezzanine and disappeared from view. When she was gone, Quasimodo stood rooted to the floor for a moment, wringing his hands and bracing himself against the waves of guilt that washed over him in succession. How unfair was it that such a wonderful night could be followed by a morning filled with uncertainty and dread?

After a moment, he rubbed his faced in frustration and made a move towards the nearby rope. He had intended to start repairing one of the bells, when he heard a set of returning footsteps pounding up the stairs. He paused and turned around to see Sancha leap back up to the mezzanine. She rushed over to him, planted the forgotten goodbye kiss on his lips, and ran off again.

XXX

It was a warm day in Paris. The snow from last night had melted and created puddles in the street, which Sancha splashed through. She all but ran through the city, whipping her head about in search of the apothecary's sign. She thought about asking for directions, but embarrassment and stress killed the idea immediately.

Eventually, after running down the same street three times, she found what she was looking for. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of the apothecary after she asked him for a specific medicine.

"Silphium?" The old, balding man furrowed his bushy brows at her. "Are you certain that's what you want?"

Swallowing down hard, Sancha nodded. There was no one else in the shop, and she was grateful for it; the apothecary's perplexed gaze was hard enough to deal with.

"Not even my master had silphium in his repertoire. It's long believed to have been harvested out of existence."

He eyed her for a tense moment. "May I ask what you need it for, mademoiselle? If it's an upset stomach, I can prescribe something else…"

"No, no," Sancha said, though the way her stomach lurched made her reconsider. "I… I will just go and… lie down. Thank you."

The girl turned and left the shop before the apothecary could respond. She watched her feet carry her down the road, her anxiety mounting and tightening in her chest. She could have sworn she once overheard her father discussing silphium with a pair of clients. Did Avram not say it was a powerful contraceptive herb? Sancha was starting to doubt her memory, as it had been a long time ago… Maybe silphium was unknown in France?

Maybe she would be fine, she told herself. Maybe this was all for nothing and she would remain as childless as she ever was

There again, her conscience whispered to her, maybe she wouldn't.

Sancha bit down on her lip, fighting with all her might to keep from crying in the street. She might really have shed a tear or two if she had not suddenly heard something that stopped her: Music.

Sancha followed the jaunty tune until she rounded the bend and found herself part of a small crowd. In the corner of the cul-de-sac, Esmeralda danced for coins, tambourine in hand and Djali prancing around her feet. The musician that accompanied her playing a shawm*, and despite her restlessness, Sancha made herself stay and watch. She even managed a smile when Esmeralda spotted her and winked.

When the song was over, and Esmeralda and her musician bowed, the onlookers threw their coins into an upturned hat and dispersed. Sancha fished in her satchel for a few _sols_* and approached Esmeralda when the crowd cleared.

"You are an amazing dancer," she said, holding out her coins. "It is not much, but this is for you."

Esmeralda closed Sancha's fingers over the _sols_. "Keep them," she said, not unkindly. "I saw you bent over someone else's linens on the Seine the other day. Consider this a free preview for what I'll be performing at the Festival of Fools."

"Oh. Thank you."

Sancha shifted her weight from foot to foot, her cheeks burning as she struggled to ask what needed to be asked. Esmeralda bent to look the girl in the eye, her arms crossed.

"What's wrong? You look like you want to say something."

Sancha stared at her feet, where she met Djali's questioning gaze as well. With a sigh, she muttered, "I need help."

Esmeralda cocked an eyebrow and waited silently for an explanation.

"I need a… Do you know… H-Have you ever heard of silphium?"

"No." Esmeralda's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "What's that?"

"It's…" Sancha wanted nothing more than to disappear where she stood. She glanced over Esmeralda's shoulder to see her musician discreetly take his leave. She tried again.

"It is a thing for women to take when… I mean, after they… I need it to… for not to… become with a… child…"

Esmeralda's face softened as soon as Sancha whispered the last word, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. The younger woman looked down at her shoes, suddenly feeling ashamed of herself. She completely expected Esmeralda to recoil from her in horror for what she was asking, or perhaps even to scold her for what she did. Instead, a soft hand fell on her shoulder, and she looked up to see an empathetic warmth in the gypsy's green eyes.

"Don't worry," she said. "I think I've got something that can help you."

Esmeralda led Sancha down the road and into the town square, where caravans were parked amid the skeletons of festival tents. As the two women and the goat approached Esmeralda's caravan, Sancha noticed Phoebus was nowhere in sight. Although she was fond of the man, Sancha was glad for his absence this time.

Inside the dark, cramped wagon, Esmeralda pawed through a few shelves until she produced a small wooden box. Approaching Sancha, she lifted the lid, took Sancha's hand, and tipped out a few teardrop shaped leaves with softly serrated edges.

The girl squinted at the specimens in her palm. "What is it?"

"They're raspberry leaves."

Sancha had never heard of a "rasp-berry" before, but a larger question overshadowed her curiosity about foreign fruit. "What do I do with them?"

"That depends. Are you regular?"

"_Sí_…"

"Then wait until you miss your courses – _if_ you do – and brew a tea with these leaves."

"And it will work?"

Esmeralda smiled patiently and placed her hands on Sancha's shoulders, which were raised like the hackles of a frightened dog. "It's worked for me every time. I'm confident enough to say you're going to be just fine."

The younger woman drew in a deep, calming breath and smiled in thanks. "You must now accept my _sols_, Esmeralda. How else may I thank you?"

"That's not necessary," the gypsy girl insisted. "You can take them. Phoebus and I have no more use for them."

"Ah! Congratulations!"

Esmeralda shook her head. "Hold your applause; there's no baby yet. Hopefully that will change soon… In any case, those leaves are yours now. And, don't look so guilty. You're not the first or last woman to deal with something like this. Just be careful, all right?"

"Yes, I will. Thank you so much, _mi amiga_."

Sancha gave her a kiss on the cheek and turned to leave, when Esmeralda's voice stopped her.

"Sancha?"

The young woman glanced over her shoulder, her hand holding the caravan door ajar. Sunlight poured into the little room, lighting up Esmeralda's face, where a knowing smile tugged at her full lips.

"This isn't just your responsibility. Tell Quasimodo to be careful too."

Sancha's cheeks flared with a painful blush. "How did you…?"

"_Venga ya, mija*_," Esmeralda laughed. "Could there be anyone else?"

Despite the younger girl's embarrassment, the gypsy's good humour and frankness was contagious. Now armed with a solution to her problem and the reassurance of a friend, Sancha felt herself smiling too. After all, Esmeralda was right: There couldn't possibly be anyone else for her. And, Sancha hoped in a moment of silent wistfulness, there never would be.

* * *

**_* "_****_Que sons bons els blaus dels qui s'estimen":_ "How lovely are bruises when they're given in love"**

*** shawm: A woodwind instrument similar to an oboe (in the Disney movie, it's what Esmeralda's musician was playing when Phoebus first saw her)**

*** _sols: _A unit of currency used in Western Europe during the Middle Ages**

*** **_**"Venga ya, mija**_**_"_: "Come now, my girl"**

**I know this chapter might seem like a digression from the main plot, but I promise, there's a reason for this part in the story. You'll just have to keep reading to find out ;)**

**As always, thank you all for reading! More on the way...**


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: Hello again, dear readers, and thank you for last week's reviews and comments. In return, please enjoy this (rather long) update :) **

**Chapter Twelve**

**_"But she will be mine,_**

**_Or she will burn"_**

_'Hellfire', Hunchback of Notre Dame_

It was late on the eve of January 5, 1483 when the city gates of Paris opened. In the dying light of day, the townsfolk slowed their steps and gawked at the procession that marched into town.

Although it was not uncommon to see pilgrims and other travellers flood Paris for the Festival of Fools, these strangers were unlike any the citizens had ever seen before. Two men on horseback led the charge, flying livery no one in Paris recognized. Behind them, a draft horse pulled a magnificent carriage with a tall, red-clad man inside.

The Parisians whispered behind the hands to each other about the man's fin silk robes and the wide brimmed _galero*_ on his tonsured head. The cardinal did not look at anyone or anything as his entourage moved through the streets of Paris. His dark, distant eyes were focused at an unseen spot before him, paying no heed to his surroundings.

Behind the cardinal's carriage, a squire rode a horse that drew behind it a prison carriage. The walls were made of heavy, rusted iron, and the door had but a single barred window. The townsfolk couldn't say if the monstrous carriage was empty or full. One thing everyone could tell, though, was where the procession of strangers was headed: The Palace of Justice.

XXX

Minister Philippe du Chastel sat at his desk, back straight and gaze narrowed. Sitting across from him was the subject of the rumours he had heard within the hour: Cardinal Tomas de Tavera, head of the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition. The clergyman had not smiled once since stepping into the minister's office, and he possessed a stillness that put Philippe on edge immediately.

With the formalities over and done with, the minister had no issue in asking, "Why have you come to my city, Cardinal? It certainly isn't to pray, if your prison carriage is anything to go by."

"Indeed, Minister du Chastel," Tavera replied in eloquent French. "I am here on the account of an escaped prisoner. A young woman from my jurisdiction is suspected of practicing Judaism in secret and committing blood libel. She evaded arrest, I learned that she is here, and now I intend to bring her to justice."

Philippe squared his shoulders, his eyes boring into Tavera's.

"I will have you know, Your Eminence," he said in an even voice, "I do not take kindly to strangers looking for trouble in my city."

A muscle in Tavera's jaw twitched. "I was granted permission to be here."

"But with the intent to conduct a search for a single suspect. Why?"

"That is Tribunal business."

"Nevertheless…" Philippe continued. He leaned on his elbows and glared at Tavera. "I will have you know my predecessor nearly burned Paris to the ground last year, all for the sake of one stupid girl. When I took up the mantle of minister here, I vowed never to let my city suffer like that again. If you intend on finding your criminal, Cardinal, you will do so without disturbing or antagonizing my people."

Tavera's nostrils flared, but he remained silent.

"And you will show me proof of this girl's misdeeds before you take her back to Spain."

Tavera nearly jumped out of his seat. "I do not owe _you_ any – "

"You are making an arrest in _my_ jurisdiction. I am well within my right to demand proof before you cart someone off to be burned at the stake."

Silence fell, and Philippe almost expected Tavera to go over the desk at him. Instead, the cardinal rose, turned on his heel, and stalked towards the door. Philippe smiled and leaned back in his seat, content in knowing he had won, when Tavera paused at the door and glanced over his shoulder.

"Mark my words, Minister," he said, his voice low and gravely, "if you impede me in my mission, your city will pay. My country has spent nearly a thousand years wrestling its lands from the grips of heathens. Unless you want to see Paris succumb to heretics as Toledo did, you will let me have the Jewess."

The nearby fireplace cast Tavera's elongated shadow down the floor and up the wall. Darkness pooled under the cardinal's eyes and in his cheeks, and Philippe decided he looked incredibly ill.

"I sincerely doubt one heretic has the power to upend the city," the minister replied stoically.

Tavera smiled, one corner of his mouth quirked upwards, giving him the appearance of one of the grotesques that guarded Notre Dame's walls. "_Ahora bien*_… That is how it begins."

With that, the cardinal left, the door slamming behind him in his wake. Philippe sat in silence for a moment, staring at the fire and considering what kind of man he had just allowed into Paris. Sighing, he rose from the desk, stretched, and made a mental note to keep an eye on the Spaniard. For all the cardinal's talk of crypto-Judaism, the possibility of a single Jewess in Paris didn't unnerve Philippe nearly as much as Tavera's smile did.

XXX

The late morning sunshine filtered into the bell tower through the rafters, chasing shadows into corners and creating rainbows through scatterings of old stained glass. Sancha was at the mezzanine window, leaning on the sill and resting her head on her forearms as she watched the proceedings in the square below.

At the worktable, Quasimodo observed the way her hair fell in soft waves down her back before trying to replicate them on the block of wood in his hand. The figurine of Sancha was half-finished, with her face, arms, and Spanish style dress already whittled out. No matter how much Sancha begged to see his progress, Quasimodo always kept the figurine hidden under a cloth. He wanted to do her justice and refused to let her see anything but a perfect replica of her likeness.

"There are so many people in the square," he heard her say from the window.

He looked up from his work. "Oh?"

Sancha straightened and glanced over her shoulder. "When would you like to go?"

"Go?" The word came out as a question, but Quasimodo knew exactly what she was asking. A cold sense of dread settled deep in his crooked bones.

"To the Festival of Fools." As she turned back to the window, Sancha added, "Esmeralda will be dancing, and I wish to see her."

Frowning, Quasimodo set the figurine aside and covered it with a nearby rag. He would have been foolish to think Sancha would want to stay inside today. The Festival of Fools was one of Paris's busiest and most celebrated holidays. However, he couldn't shake the memories of last year, either. He could still feel the ropes bite into his wrists, the sting of rotten produce in his eyes, the burning shame in his belly… It was something he wished he could forget, but at the suggestion of attending the festival again, the recollections were as clear as they had been hours after the torture happened.

Quasimodo abandoned the table and joined Sancha at the window. There was already a sizable crowd gathering in front of the cathedral, and distant music floated up to the tower in jovial lilts. To anyone else, it looked like a fun time.

"I… I suppose we could go now… For a bit…"

Sancha looked up at him, concern flashing in her dark eyes. "Do you not wish to go?"

The young man avoided her gaze. He hadn't told Sancha all the details of his first time at the Festival of Fools, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to now. The memories were embarrassing enough, but he also knew if he told her what happened she might just end up feeling bad for asking to go.

No, he wouldn't tell her, he decided. Sancha shouldn't have to pay for something she wasn't even around for.

With that, Quasimodo put on a brave smile for her and said, "I do. Come on. Let's go before it gets too crowded."

Sancha rose and laid a hand on his arm, leaning in to get a good look at his eyes. A cautious little grin tugged at her lips, but her gaze was soft and sincere.

"Are you certain you're all right to go, Quasimodo? You seem uneasy."

Firmly shoving away his apprehension, the bell ringer gave her a kiss on the cheek and answered, "Everything's fine, Sancha. I promise."

Lightly touching her cheek, the girl accepted his insistence with a giddy little smile and hurried off to find her overshoes. Once Quasimodo was alone, he sighed and tried again to tamp down the rising discomfort in his chest. After all, the bad times from last year existed solely in the past. As far as he should have been concerned, everything was fine.

Still, he thought as he absentmindedly rubbed his wrist, something still didn't seem quite right that day.

XXX

On the South side of the fairgrounds, the crowd parted as the foreign carriage rolled in over the cobalt stones. Tavera surveyed the bright costumes, flags, and tents. Despite his resolve to find his fugitive, he could not help thinking about how Alfonso would have loved the colours here.

"Sir?"

The soldier's voice startled Tavera out of his sad reflections. Turning, he snapped, "What, Gomez?"

"All of Paris is here, and more," his subordinate said, gesturing to the throngs of citizens with a sweep of his arm. His other hand held fast to the reigns of his horse, who threw its head in distress at the surrounding chaos.

"Precisely," Tavera said. "All of Paris is here. It would stand to reason that the Jewess is here too."

"But how are we ever going to find the girl in this mess?"

"I will circle the fairgrounds a thousand times if I must," Tavera told him, his lip curling back. "If she is here, I will find her. If she is not, we will continue our search."

Gomez didn't press his master further. He had learned by now that when the cardinal made up his mind, he was incorrigible. Instead, he rode further ahead to join Diego, who was ponying Tavera's carriage horse.

"Do you think Avram's daughter is really here?" Gomez muttered as he looked around.

"Who cares?" Diego shrugged. "As long as I get to see the dancing girls at some point today, I'll consider this trip worthwhile."

XXX

The Feast of the Epiphany was celebrated in Spain as well as France, but Sancha had never seen anything like the Festival of Fools before. The square was full of tents, merchant's stands, and confetti rained down from the sky to carpet the stones in colour. Everyone was smiling, many with a mug of ale or wine in hand, and the costumes dazzled. The sweet smell of freshly baked bread and roasting meat wafted through the fairgrounds, mingling with the tunes produced by various unseen instruments.

It was a rowdy, off-kilter, and exciting scene. Sancha kept a tight grip on Quasimodo's arm as they made their way towards the main stage. A few people stopped them to say hello as they walked. Sancha recognized the blacksmith, the baker, and the wool merchant and his wife. As soon as they found a spot to stand up near the main stage, though, they were approached by a man in a travelling cloak, his hood drawn down over his eyes.

Upon seeing him, Sancha was apprehensive, but her fear dissolved as soon as the man inclined his head to smile at them – It was Phoebus.

"What are you doing with that heavy thing on?" Sancha asked. "Are you not hot?"

"Very," Phoebus admitted. "But I have to keep a low profile."

"Why?"

"Because of him."

Phoebus jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. Sancha and Quasimodo craned their necks to see a tall, bearded man with greying brown hair settle into a highbacked chair under a raised canopy. Positioned directly in front of the stage, he had the best seat of the entire festival, even better than the high benches where the nobles sat. Judging by his long, dark robes and plumed hat, Sancha guessed he was a city official of some sort.

"That is who?" she asked in a hushed voice.

"Lord Philippe du Chastel, the new minister," Phoebus explained in a conspiratorial whisper. "He seems a fair bit easier going than Frollo, but I can't take any chances. As far as the government is concerned, I'm still a fugitive. If he recognizes me, he might have cause turn me in."

Sancha glanced back at the minister. Philippe du Chastel smiled at someone in the crowd and waved. He reminded her a little bit of her rabbi back in Toledo. It was hard to imagine he would persecute anyone, let alone someone as nice as Phoebus.

She glanced back at the two men, only to see Quasimodo frowning at his boots, his hands busily twisting themselves in front of him. Phoebus clapped him lightly on the shoulder and said, "Esmeralda's going on soon. I'll be back with a few pints, if you two are interested."

Sancha thanked the former solider as he strode off, his cloak fluttering in his wake. She slipped her arm into Quasimodo's again and murmured, "We do not have to stay if you are upset."

Although Sancha was amazed by the festival and excited to see Esmeralda, she couldn't ignore the pit in her stomach when she saw how on-edge Quasimodo was. She could only imagine what he felt, knowing that a year ago his own master had sat in the seat Minister du Chastel now occupied. Perhaps that was why he was so reluctant to go earlier.

Still, the bell ringer covered his hand with her and said, "No, Sancha, it's fine."

"But, is it?" she asked quietly. "If this is too much, I do not mind returning to Notre Dame."

Quasimodo stayed silent for a moment, his eyes refusing to rest on hers and his face troubled. After a moment of what looked like some inner conflict, he finally met her gaze and grasped her hand.

"I don't want you to worry," he told her under his breath. "Last year's festival wasn't… It didn't really turn out how I wanted it, and it's a bit s-strange to be back… But, that's in the past now."

He squeezed her hand before adding, "You've been through a lot lately. I just want you to have a day to enjoy yourself."

Sancha's heart swelled with these words. For a moment, she wasn't sure if she wanted to stay or drag him back to their shared loft in the bell tower. Instead, she opted to kiss his cheek and murmured, "_Gracias, mi alma._"

Quasimodo smiled at the ground, his cheeks pink. Sancha pointedly ignored the whispers she heard behind her back about what she had just done. Let them talk, she told herself. Nothing was going to spoil her day.

Phoebus soon returned with three mugs of ale for them and Djali trotting at his heels. Sancha accepted her drink with a thanks and gave the goat a slice of apple she had been saving in her satchel. Djali happily accepted the treat and licked her palm in gratitude.

Before long, the show started. It began with a mystery play, with a trio of players portraying the three magi. After that, a bard sang a bawdy song to the accompaniment of a lute and shawm, pulling up raucous laughter from the crowd. Finally, it was Esmeralda's turn to perform, and she appeared on the stage in a puff of smoke. She startled Sancha so badly, the girl nearly dropped her cup.

As she watched her friend prance around the stage in a lovely red dress, Sancha felt a sense of giddy happiness race through her veins. Whether it was the alcohol, or the fact that she was here with people she cared deeply for in a city she had come to appreciate, she didn't know. All she knew in that moment was that she was more relaxed than she had been in months.

She glanced at the two men beside her, the movement making her head spin a little. Phoebus watched his wife, the hood over his head unable to conceal the proud grin or the desirous look in his eyes. Quasimodo was smiling up at Esmeralda too, but when he noticed Sancha staring at him, he tore his gaze away from the stage.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

Sancha opened her mouth, but found her voice gone. What she was about to say wasn't an answer to his question. It was completely unprompted, unexpected. Not even she knew where the thought came from. Still, she hesitated as the words knocked around in her head, threatening to jump from her lips if she didn't think of something else to say soon. But, why was it so hard to just say what she wanted to say?

_Because you've never said it to anyone before_, her conscious whispered.

A burst of applause from the crowd broke the couple out of their spell. Sancha turned back to the stage to see Esmeralda bowing, a pile of gold coins growing at her feet. Even Philippe du Chastel tossed a few livres to the gypsy girl, laughing in approval. After curtsying to the minister, Esmeralda turned to exit stage right, when her gaze caught Sancha's. With a jerk of her head, the dancer hopped off the stage, and Sancha watched to see where she went.

"I'll be back. I believe Esmeralda wishes to speak with me."

She downed the rest of her ale and bade a quick goodbye to Quasimodo and Phoebus. As she ran off, the former solider watched the girl before turning back to his companion.

"Congrats by the way," he said.

"For what?" Quasimodo asked.

Phoebus waved his hands towards Sancha's retreating figure. "She seems like a good girl. You two look really happy together."

"Oh, um…" The bell ringer looked away in embarrassment, but despite himself, a smile threatened to break the surface of his face.

"Come on," Phoebus said in a light, teasing tone. "Own it a little, would you? Just don't wait too long to make an honest woman out of her. Girls have expectations too, you know."

"What…?" Quasimodo started, but trailed off when the meaning of Phoebus's words sunk in. In the silence, the former soldier quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Unless, marriage isn't your plan?" he asked slowly.

"I don't know," Quasimodo muttered, almost to himself. "We never really talked about it."

"Well," Phoebus said, "don't worry too much about it. Just, keep it in mind if Sancha's going to hang around, all right?"

Quasimodo nodded, his mind swimming. He knew his friend was right. He had been cohabitating with Sancha for months, and ever since she asked him to stay the night with her, he had been confused. Happy, even elated, but painfully confused. After surviving the aftermath of their first night together, he wasn't sure where to go next. Sancha treated him unlike anyone else in his life – She always sat close to him, often held his hand or rested her head on his good shoulder, and she wasn't shy about taking a kiss when she wanted. She insisted on cooking (though she claimed not to be very good) and delighted in any needlework that had to be done. He had come to recognize the mischievous twinkle in her eye that meant she wanted to 'go to bed', and they could spend hours talking after the fact. Despite Quasimodo never having made mention of it, she acted as he imagined a wife would around her husband.

But if that were so, he always asked himself, why hadn't she told him she loved him yet?

XXX

Sancha found Esmeralda in her tent that doubled as a dressing room. She cautiously stepped inside, just as the gypsy was tying the cord around her robe.

"You were amazing," the girl said as she let the curtain fall closed behind her.

Esmeralda pushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled. "Glad you enjoyed it."

The gypsy gave her friend a look over and said, "I wanted to ask you how you're feeling. Any better?"

"How do you mean?"

"The leaves I gave you." Esmeralda quirked an eyebrow at her. "Did you do as I told you?"

Sancha looked at her feet and smiled, trying not to feel shy. Absentmindedly, she wrapped her arms around her midriff. "_Realemente,_ I had no use for them after all."

Esmeralda gave her a knowing wink. "I figured. That's good news. Still, keep them on you just in case."

"I always do." Sancha patted her satchel and gave her friend a grateful smile.

After leaving Esmeralda to get changed, Sancha found herself wandering through the fairgrounds, cup in hand, drinking in the sight around her. Quasimodo and Phoebus were gone from the main stage, but she felt no sense of urgency to find them just yet. Instead, she wandered from stand to stand, tasting the ales and watching the side acts while she gathered her thoughts.

While she had not needed to use the leaves Esmeralda gave her, Sancha did not feel as thrilled as she thought she would when her monthly courses began last week. The thought of having a child out of wedlock while she was trying to start her life over terrified her. But, she was not adverse to the idea of eventually becoming a parent. In fact, she thought as she watched a young family stroll by the puppet show, she wanted nothing more than to be a wife and mother.

Sancha took a swig of her ale as she moved under a colourful banner. Thoughts swirled in her mind with the alcohol, warming her through. Her arrival in Paris had been marked by loss, confusion, and dishonesty, but everything was different now. Now, she was a known face around the city and could pick up menial jobs whenever she could. Now, she found a place to live – unorthodox as it was – and an equally unorthodox partner.

A smiled tugged at the corners of her mouth. She never imagined herself as a bell ringer's wife. Her mother had been a noblewoman and her father, a physician. By all rights, she was supposed to marry a wealthy landowner, or perhaps a successful merchant or a banker.

And yet, here she was, wishing with every day that passed that Quasimodo would ask her to marry him.

Sancha didn't know what was holding him back. She had no father for him to negotiate with. They had been living together for months, she assured him she would stay until he wouldn't have her anymore, she gave herself to him… And yet, he never asked.

Sancha wondered why as she circled a group of girls who were engaged in a small carol.* Was he scared of rejection? But she had proved to him that she loved and cared for him. What more convincing did he need?

Did he have to hear her say it out loud? Sancha frowned, her heart growing a little heavier with each step. If that was all it took, he had no idea how close she came to saying it out loud, before all of Paris, just thirty minutes ago…

The young woman sighed and reminded herself that, whatever the reason was, no one should ever have to be convinced of getting married. She would simply have to be patient and let Quasimodo come to her when he felt it the time was right.

Meanwhile, she would simply enjoy the day and let tomorrow take care of itself.

_And I will tell him,_ she thought. _The world__ may hear, but I won't hold back this time._

Sancha finished her cup and winced as the warm, acrid liquid ran down her throat. Her face felt very warm, and she knew it wasn't just because of the sun. In that moment, she decided to stop meandering and find Quasimodo and Phoebus. It wouldn't do to be caught alone and tipsy in such a large crowd.

She turned on her heel but stopped short. Her breath hitched in her throat as the sight of the red, wide-brimmed hat of a cardinal floating through the crowd. Sancha stood frozen where she was, ignoring the staggering young couple that bumped into her. The crowd parted to reveal a matching red robe. The cardinal had his back to her, but she watched him turn his head. His profile was sharp and dangerous, his aquiline nose and square jaw cutting stark shadows against the day's colours. He turned his back to the young woman and kept walking.

The empty cup clattered to Sancha's feet. She backed up into a group of men, who shouted at her to watch herself. She ignored them and staggered off into the crowd, fighting to keep her vision from tunneling.

He couldn't be here. It was impossible. Sancha muttered these two phrases to herself under her breath, but she couldn't convince herself. Each step she took felt as if the street was giving out beneath her. The festive music grew muffled, as if she had a blanket over her head. She tried to draw in a breath, but it was as if her lungs were rejecting the air. Sancha blinked, and suddenly she was running, knocking into bystanders and upsetting many a drink, but she didn't care. She ran blindly, panting, until she found Quasimodo sitting by himself on a bench near the gypsies' caravans.

"Sancha," he said when he saw her, "there you are! I was looking every – "

"_Es aqui_."

"What?"

"He's here."

"Who?"

Sancha swallowed down hard, her throat dry. "T-Tavera. He's here, at the Festival. _Ahora_, I saw him."

Quasimodo stared at her, his mouth open but unmoving. He didn't believe her. Sancha clenched her jaw against the threatening sting in her eyes. She was searching for the words in French that would convince him she wasn't lying, but he spoke first.

"A-Are you sure?"

"Yes! I-I swear to you, I saw him! He is in Paris. I- He can't find me – _Por favor, Quasimodo, créeme!_"*

The look in the bell ringer's eyes soon turned from disbelieving to frightened. He took her hands, which were balled into fists in front of her, and lowered them.

"You have to go to the church," he told her, his words quiet but rushed. "You need to claim sanctuary before he finds you. He can't hurt you if you're inside Notre Dame."

"But I – "

"I-It's going to be okay," he stammered, rising from the bench. He never let go of her hands, though his own palms became slick. "J-Just, follow me. Keep your head down, okay?"

Sancha did exactly as she was told, watching her feet carry her over the cobalt stones as Quasimodo led her through the throngs of people. Each step seemed heavy and slow, as if they couldn't reach Notre Dame fast enough. When Sancha dared to raise her head again, a treacherous measure of relief laced her heart when she saw the statues of the Kings of Israel looming high above her.

That was, until, Quasimodo accidentally ran straight into a woman ahead of them and ground their procession to a halt.

"Excuse me!"

The woman whirled around, and Sancha recognized her as the woman who confronted her for sleeping in the transept all those months ago. The face of Marguerite de Beaumont was flushed an angry shade of red, and her sharp blue eyes glinted dangerously in the sunlight.

"You," she growled, glaring contemptuously down at Quasimodo. "You wretched boy. How dare you put your hands on a lady?"

"I-I-I'm s-sorry," Quasimodo started to apologize, but Sancha cut in.

"Enough! Get out of his way!"

She passed Quasimodo and reached out, completely intending to shove the old woman aside, etiquette be damned. However, she never got a chance. Marguerite captured her wrist in her talon-like hands and jerked her arm up, her gaze horrified as it fixed on Sancha's adorned pointing finger.

"You little witch," she shrieked. "Where on earth did you get this?"

"_Get off me!_" Sancha shouted. She struggled to pull her hand away, but the lady held fast.

"Why do you have this?" she demanded. She pulled on Sancha's arm, so that her hand was splayed out between the two of them. "Where did you get this ring?"

"Let her go!" Quasimodo made a move to pry the woman's hand off Sancha's wrist but stopped when the lady screamed.

"Keep your hands off me," she snarled at him, before turning back to Sancha to ask again, "Where did you get this? That ring is mine!"

The commotion was starting to draw a crowd. Quasimodo glanced around, panic threatening to overtake him, when he saw Esmeralda's face poke out from the crowd. Her eyes were wide and questioning, and her jaw dropped when she realized what was happening at the centre of the circle.

"It's mine!" Sancha screamed, digging her heels into the ground.

"Give me back my ring!" the old woman shouted, her fingers prying at the jewelry. "I gave it to my daughter when she was baptized! You lying little thief, how did you come by it?"

"_Vete la mierda_," Sancha told her, pulling as hard as she could. "My mother gave this to me for _my_ baptism! It is the possession of Jeanne de Beaumont, not you!"

Marguerite's face fell out faster than a gallows floor. Her grip went slack, but before Sancha could wrench herself free, the noblewoman muttered in a dazed voice, "Impossible… Jeanne de Beaumont is my daughter…"

Sancha's body went very still, her wrist hanging limply in Marguerite's hand. As quietly as she had spoken them, the old woman's words rang as loud as any church bell in Sancha's head. In that moment, she forgot all about the imminent danger. Somewhere in the distant, she heard Quasimodo urging her to get to the church, but she couldn't move. All she could do was stare at the noblewoman's eyes and note how similar they were to her mother's…

Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed Sancha by the back of her dress and wrenched her away from her grandmother. Before she could even scream, the young woman found herself nose-to-nose with a pair of hard, black eyes and a poorly concealed grin.

"Sancha Bat Avram," Tomas de Tavera purred. "At last, I've finally caught up to you."

* * *

* _**galero**: _**A wide-brimmed hat worn by cardinals **

***"_Ahora bien..." : _"Well now..."**

***"_Por favor, Quasimodo, créeme" : _"Please, Quasimodo, believe me"**

**Phew, I was almost afraid the characters were getting too comfortable... Alas, I'm going to have to let Tavera ruin their fun a little bit... What will he do, I hear you asking? My dear reader, I'm afraid you'll just have to keep reading to find out ;)**

**As always, thank you for reading and sticking with the story!**


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hello again :) Before we begin, thank you as always to those of you who reviewed and commented on the story last week. Big thank you as well to those of you simply read my silly little words and derive some enjoyment from them. All of my dear readers, both old and new, vocal and not, are very much appreciated! **

**Chapter Thirteen**

_**"Tanca la porta amb set claus,**_

_**Ferma el ferro dels set panys.**_

_**El que ha de ser, serà,**_

_**I li tallaran les mans."***_

_'Voldrien', L'Ham de Foc_

It all happened so fast. One moment Sancha was standing captivated before Marguerite de Beaumont, and the next, she was in the literal clutches of a red-clad cardinal.

Quasimodo heard himself cry out her name as he lunged towards them. He was stopped by the point of a sword, leveled at his throat by a stone-faced guard. Frozen in place, he glanced over the stranger's shoulder, where Tomas de Tavera spoke in calm Spanish to Sancha. The way he put his face close to hers made the bell ringer want to throw the cardinal half-way across the square.

"I knew I'd find you eventually," Tavera cooed, as if scolding a troublesome kitten. "You've caused me no small measure of grief, dragging me all the way up to France."

Sancha said nothing. All she could do was stare, speechless, at the man who had ransacked her home and killed her parents. She blinked rapidly, hoping in vain for his image to fade away and reveal this to be nothing more than a bad dream. But, Tavera kept talking, the rough skin of his knuckles grazed the back of her neck where he held her by her dress. He undeniably, horribly, real.

"Be warned, this little escapade of yours will be added to your charges. No matter, though. I promise to read them all out loud for you at your pyre."

Sancha felt herself trembling. She opened her mouth, but she wasn't sure if she was going to scream or vomit.

"Now, this is as embarrassing for me as it is for you." Tavera glanced around at the gawking crowd, who were being held at bay by his guards and their squire. "If you come quietly, we can both return to Spain with some of our dignity."

"But… how…?" Sancha whispered hoarsely to herself.

Tavera grinned, one corner of his mouth slightly higher than the other. "How did I find you? Simple: Your traitorous mother told me. Familial transgression is a terrible sin, wouldn't you say, _señorita_?"

A deep shudder ran through Sancha's body. "It's not true," she murmured. She would not believe him. She could not believe that her mother would sell her out, no matter what terrible things the inquisitor had done to her.

Tavera was saying something, but she barely heard him. Instead, someone shouted nearby in French, the familiarity of the voice shattering the spell over her.

_"L'église, Sancha! Vas à l'église!"*_

She turned and saw Quasimodo held in place by a sword, his body poised and his face ashen. Seeing him there, hearing the plea in his voice, broke her completely out of her paralysis. Without a second thought, she ducked her head and pulled with all her might.

It was no use. Tavera held fast to her dress and used his free hand to grab her arm. His voice was thunderous in her ear.

"Be still!"

"Let me go!"

"Juan, get her other arm!" Tavera called over his shoulder at the squire, when a flash of white and a resounding _thud_ erupted between the girl and the cardinal. Tavera grunted and stumbled back, his grip slackening.

Sancha took the opportunity and ran. She didn't look down to see Djali standing in front of Tavera, his head bowed and his legs splayed. Instead, she turned on her heel and sprinted towards the cathedral. She swerved around one of Tavera's soldiers and Juan, who made a grab for her. The youth caught her satchel's strap, but Sancha kept going. The bag tore off her shoulder and its contents spilled onto the street.

Sancha kept running and only stopped when she slammed her body into the church doors. She gripped the massive handle, like a frightened child clutching her mother's hand, and turned back to the square.

"I declare sanctuary!" she shouted in Spanish, and then again in French. A hush fell over the crowd as Tavera, who was rubbing his chest, slowly walked over to Sancha's ruined bag. He ignored her declaration and knelt down by the scattered coins, her pocket knife, and…

Sancha's courage evaporated as Tavera picked up a single, triangular leaf between his fingers. He held it up for examination, his gaze darkening as it drifted to her. Gone was his cool and smug façade. Now, he looked angry, as if she had personally offended him.

"The devil take you," he spat. "I'll assume this to mean you've added infanticide to your list of crimes against the innocent."

The Parisians exchanged glances and conspiratorial murmurs. For a moment, Sancha wondered if anyone understood what Tavera was saying, and her blood ran cold.

She glanced at Quasimodo, who looked ready to run himself on the soldier's blade if Tavera took one more step towards her. Sancha silently willed him to stay put when the door opened behind her.

"What's all the shouting?" the archdeacon demanded as he stepped out of the cathedral. He glanced down at Sancha, raising his eyebrows at her terrified expression. "Are you all right, child?"

"I would ignore her claim to sanctuary if I were you, Father," Tavera announced in French before Sancha could answer. He rose and brushed off his habit before pointing a finger at her. "If you allow that girl into Notre Dame, know that you'll not only be concealing a criminal, but a Jewess as well. Give her to me, and you'll be rid of her corruption."

An agitated murmur swept through the crowd, the word _'Juive'_ repeated like a twisted mantra. The archdeacon glared at Tavera for a moment before a shrill voice cut through the chatter in the square.

"He's lying, Father!"

Sancha turned to see Marguerite at the edge of the crowd, her head held high and her hands balled into fists at her sides.

"That girl is my granddaughter," she continued. "The ring she wears on her left hand was a baptismal gift from my daughter, Jeanne, which she inherited from me. The child is Christian and has a right to sanctuary."

Tavera glared at the older woman, grinding his teeth. "Silence! This is no business of yours –"

"Enough," the archdeacon commanded, raising his hand for quiet. When everyone fell silent, he looked down at Sancha and asked, "Did you declare sanctuary?"

She nodded, and the world spun.

"Then come inside." The kind clergyman guided her through the open door, his hand on her shoulder. "All of God's children may seek shelter in Notre Dame, no matter their colour or creed."

Without a word, Sancha stepped into the shadowy interior of the church. The archdeacon followed in after her, closing the door and plunging her into momentary darkness.

XXX

Tavera glowered at the doors of Notre Dame, the only thing that stood between him and his captive. He was so close, and she had escaped yet again.

He barked out an order for his men to fall back. Gomez, Diego, and Juan did as they were told, and Gomez, who had been holding a deformed hunchback at sword-point, lowered his weapon. Tavera watched as the wretched creature rushed past them and into the cathedral, the door shutting behind him with a resounding bang. A female voice called out, "Quasimodo!", and Tavera turned to see a beautiful gypsy woman staring at the cathedral doors, her hand outstretched. She turned to a man in a travelling cloak next to her and looked up at him, her emerald eyes wide and incredulous.

The cardinal was broken out of his seething observations by a rough hand on his arm.

"Damn you, Tavera, I warned you." Philippe du Chastel regarded him with such contempt Tavera wondered if the minister would dare to strike him. "You were not to harass my people."

"Your people are just fine," Tavera snapped.

"You threatened them with swords!"

"A few of them are aiding and abetting the Jewess." Tavera's gaze wandered back to Notre Dame.

"I'll have no more of this. You disrupted a holiday and caused a public disturbance. His Holiness the Pope will hear about this, and your queen as well."

Tavera turned back to the minister, his eyes wide and unblinking. "Is that a threat, sir? While you're at it, you might as well send His Holiness and Her Majesty the proof you asked for."

The inquisitor shook off Philippe's hand and thrust the small green leaf towards him. The minister snatched it away with a scowl.

"What's this?"

"Raspberry leaves. They're used by witches to terminate unborn children."

Philippe furrowed his brow, his gaze skeptical. Tavera continued in a strained, hushed voice, "I have reason already to suspect her as an accessory to blood libel, and now I have found a substance of murder on her person_ in your city_. If you're any kind of God-fearing man, you will grant me permission to arrest her, now. Or, shall I tell your King Louis about this? I presume His Majesty would love to know his minister is impeding the work of a Holy Office."

The sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting shadows over Philippe's trouble face. At length, he threw the leaves on the ground, letting them flutter down next to Sancha's ruined bag.

"Fine," he said curtly. "You have my permission to arrest the girl. All the better if it gets you out of Paris faster. However, I cannot rescind her right to forty days of sanctuary. As an esteemed man of the cloth, you should know that. And, until she steps out of that church, Tavera, you will not bother the citizens as you did today. If I find out you've done anything to them or their property, I will be meeting you again in my courtroom."

With that, Philippe turned his back on Tavera and marched away. The cardinal watched him go, imagining for a moment what it would be like to dash the minister's brains against the streets of his precious city.

"_Papa…_"

Tavera's body stiffened when he heard that familiar, ghostly voice in his ear. He slowly looked down to see Alfonso standing beside him, staring intently at the cathedral. Tavera followed his son's gaze, which came to rest on the massive doors. Heaving a sigh, the cardinal reached out to caress his son's blond head.

"Don't worry, boy," he murmured. "She can't stay in there forever."

He waved his hand, genuinely surprised to feel nothing but the air against his palm when he expected down-soft hair. Tavera looked down and blinked. Alfonso was gone, leaving behind an empty space for his father to flex his fingers.

XXX

When Quasimodo staggered into Notre Dame, Sancha was nowhere to be found. He ascended the bell tower stairs as quickly as he could, but the young woman was neither on the mezzanine nor in their makeshift bedroom. He was just about to panic when he heard a little noise from the second level.

Sancha was up there, sitting by her bell, knees drawn up to her chest. Her gaze was vacant and very far away. Though she wasn't sobbing, a pair of tears raced in red tracts down her cheeks. Seeing her in such a state, Quasimodo all but ran to her and dropped to his knees. He swept up her trembling body his arms and held her close, as if he was shielding her. She didn't respond to his touch. It was almost as if she couldn't see him, and that worried Quasimodo nearly as much as her momentary absence did.

They stayed silent for a long time. Quasimodo didn't know if anything he could say would comfort her, as he himself was shaken in no small way. Watching Sancha fight her way past a domineering authority figure reminded him too much of similar events that occurred last year. Each time a horrible memory resurfaced, he would touch her arm or press his lips to her temple. Anything to remind him that she was there with him and out of immediate danger.

After a while, Sancha said in a hollow voice, "He followed me from Spain."

Quasimodo rested his cheek on the top of her head. "He can't hurt you here."

"For now."

His grip tightened around her. "Don't say things like that."

"I have my safety for forty days." Sancha looked up at him, her expression equal parts frightened and hopeless. "What then? Tavera is mad. If I am the last _judía_* of Toledo, he will not rest until he has me."

Quasimodo averted his gaze. Her words were starting to scare him, because he knew she was right. Men like Tavera never gave up until they got their way. It didn't matter if they wrecked lives or left abject misery in their wake. They were driven by single-minded ambition, and empathy was a foreign concept to them. Tomas de Tavera, Quasimodo knew, was exactly like Frollo, and he had hoped never to confront another personality like that again in his lifetime.

But, Fate had not been so kind, and he couldn't show Sancha how frightened he was now. For her, he had to be strong.

"Forty days is a long time," he said evenly. "We'll figure something out."

She let her head fall back down onto his good shoulder and wiped at her eyes. Quasimodo gingerly touched the back of her head, running his fingers through her light brown tresses.

"I won't let anything happen to you," he whispered to her. "I promise."

Sancha heaved a sigh and curled up against him. Absentmindedly, she fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, her fingertips occasionally grazing his skin.

"I know," she murmured. "I trust you."

XXX

Three days passed without incident. Sancha stayed in the bell tower, trying to keep busy by cleaning the place, cooking, and sewing whatever she could find. Quasimodo had to run most errands on her behalf, which he was loath to do. Not because he didn't want to help, but because he didn't like leaving Sancha alone under the circumstances. While he knew she was safe and sound within Notre Dame's walls, he couldn't help worrying every time he parted ways with her. Occasionally, Esmeralda would visit while Quasimodo was out, and that gave him the freedom stay out longer without worry.

"It won't be so bad," Esmeralda told Sancha one day as they walked between the bell towers. "I was in the church for barely a night before Quasimodo helped me escape."

"I know," Sancha sighed. "But that situation was different. Notre Dame was not your home, and you had some place to go to. This…" The girl raised her hands towards the two towers. "This is all I have."

Esmeralda nodded, her expression pensive. After a moment, she ventured, "You could go to my old home, if your Tavera doesn't leave before the forty days are up."

"How?"

The gypsy gazed out at the city. The wind picked up and blew a strand of black hair into her emerald gaze, which she absentmindedly pushed away. "Tavera doesn't know this city… Which means he wouldn't know where the old Court of Miracles is."

Sancha furrowed her brow, waiting for Esmeralda to explain.

"If Tavera insists on staying, Quasimodo could easily sneak you out of here once the forty days are up. I can meet you somewhere and hide you in the old Court of Miracles. As long as we're not followed, he wouldn't know where to find you. He'd eventually have to give up and go home."

Sancha smiled at her, the first genuine smile she had managed in three days. The two women discussed the plan, and Esmeralda explained what exactly the Court was and what happened to it a year ago. Knowing that it was now something of an outed secret hiding place to the Parisians dampened some of Sancha's enthusiasm, but Esmeralda didn't seem bothered.

"I wouldn't worry about being sold out," she said. "Tavera isn't making any friends around town, and if he keeps at it, he'll soon be making enemies."

Despite her friend's reassurances, Sancha felt her stomach twist. "Why?"

"He's already known as the man who caused trouble at the Festival of Fools," Esmeralda said with a shrug. "And he interrogates every businessowner and nobleman he sees, as if they know a loophole that'll allow him to get you." She shook her head, as if the whole thing annoyed her. "Don't let that worry you, though. Quasimodo's right – I _know_ he wouldn't let anything happen to you, and we _will_ figure it out. Just, think about what I said, about the Court of Miracles, all right? I'd even say it's our best shot at keeping you out of his hands."

The sky overhead turned grey, casting a shadow over Notre Dame and the young women who walked its pathways. Sancha nodded and followed Esmeralda's gaze towards the dark horizon, her mind swimming. The thought of more running, more sneaking, and more hiding wasn't appealing. But, if it meant Tavera would eventually be forced to leave her alone for good, she would do it. As they continued to walk, she made a mental note to tell Quasimodo about the plan when he returned home.

The day wore on, and Esmeralda eventually took her leave. Sancha stayed by the mezzanine window in the bell tower with only the gargoyles to keep her company. She gazed out at the town, watching the sky darken into a drab twilight. The day was dying, but there was still no sign of Quasimodo.

She told herself not to worry. He knew Esmeralda was visiting and maybe took his time running their errands. Maybe he was held up in conversation somewhere, or maybe he had paid Phoebus and the other gypsies a visit. Still, when she heard the creak of a floorboard underfoot, she jumped up and rushed to the edge of the platform.

"Quasimodo?" she breathed, excitedly.

But, it was not Quasimodo. The tall, aged form of the archdeacon stood at the bottom of the staircase, accompanied by a figure hidden in the shadows. The old clergyman raised his eyes and smiled kindly up at Sancha.

"Forgive me for disappointing you," he said, "but you have a visitor."

Sancha furrowed her brow at first, but her jaw went slack when the archdeacon's companion stepped out of the shadows and into the dim light of the tower. Dressed in a plain blue dress and a silk mantle was Marguerite de Beaumont, her mother's mother.

_My grandmother_, Sancha thought, and all the breath fled from her lungs. She had been so caught up in what happened with Tavera she had forgotten the secondary shock she received at the Festival: The miserable old woman who had yelled at her in a house of God was, in fact, her family.

Quietly excusing himself, the archdeacon retreated down the stairs and left the two women to stare at each other. After a moment, Marguerite cleared her throat and pushed back her hood, revealing a shock of greying blonde hair.

"Won't you invite your grandmother up?" she asked in a measured voice.

Sancha blinked, as if waking out of a dream, and stammered, "_Muy bien_ – I-I mean, yes. Come in. Uh, come up."

She stepped aside as Marguerite slowly ascended the stairs, some bones deep within her legs cricking as she climbed. Once she was on level with Sancha, she took a quick look around the tower, her nose wrinkling in disapproval. Then, she looked down at Sancha and surveyed her for so long the girl began to feel warm with self-consciousness.

"Well," Marguerite said at length. "You certainly inherited your looks from your father."

That wasn't the first time she had heard that in her life, but Sancha felt that wasn't meant as a compliment.

She squared her shoulder and raised her chin. "I loved my father, madame. Don't speak ill of him in front of me."

Marguerite blinked, taken aback by Sancha's commanding tone. She opened her mouth, but promptly closed it again. Instead of yelling, she opted to draw in a deep breath and concede, "It was merely an observation. Cool your heels, girl."

Sancha didn't know what her heels had anything to do with it, but she said nothing. Hugging her arms, she looked around the bell tower, searching for something to say when her gaze landed on the worktable nearby.

"W-Would you care to sit down?" she asked.

Marguerite inclined her head and swept past the girl to pull out the stool from underneath the table. She settled down on it, grimacing at the hard, roughhewn surface. Sancha chose to ignore the look and sat opposite the woman.

Silence hung over the two of them for a moment. As Sancha tried to gather her thoughts, Marguerite looked around the tower again, gazing up at the stained glass mobile and scanning the diorama of Paris on the table. Eventually, she picked up one of the carved sheep.

"This is… cute, I suppose," she said slowly.

Sancha nodded. "Quasimodo has skilled hands."

Marguerite snapped her head in her direction, her eyes wide and horrified. Sancha realized what she had said and pinched the bridge of her nose. She could already feel a headache coming on.

"_Guay de mí_, I mean to say that he made this." She made a sweeping gesture over the table. "He is a good craftsman."

"Oh." Marguerite put the sheep down and looked at her lap.

The rustling of pigeons in the rafters above filled the air. Outside, the sky grew darker, and the first star of the night appeared without fanfare. Sancha was looking at it when Marguerite spoke again.

"I don't doubt that you have questions for me, but I would like to ask you a few things first."

"Yes?"

Marguerite's light blue eyes – the same shade as her mother's, Sancha thought – bored into her. "What happened? Why did you come here? And where is Jeanne?"

It was Sancha's turn to look at her lap and frown. There was no way to answer Marguerite's questions without starting from the beginning, just as she had with Esmeralda and Quasimodo. Now, instead of feeling cathartic when she recounted the event, Sancha only felt sad. How was she supposed to tell this woman that her daughter was dead, and the man who had disrupted the Festival of Fools was her murderer? Somehow, Sancha got through everything, and when she was done, Marguerite was stone-faced.

"I told her," she muttered. "I told her no good would come of that Spaniard…"

The old woman's gaze was far away, watching some long ago memory play out before her. Sancha let the comment slide while she fought off the image of her mother's terrified face, one of the last clear images she had from her last day in Toledo.

A loud sniff broke Sancha out of her sad rumination. Marguerite was looking up at the rafters, lightly touching her lower eyelid. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears, but after a tense moment, she ensured none would spill over.

"Jeanne must have told you to come to Notre Dame because she knew you'd find me," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Perhaps if you weren't such an ingrate when we met, I could have saved you from… this."

She gestured up at the bells. Sancha tried not to let those words rattle her, reminding herself of the moment of humanity she had just witnessed from her grandmother.

"It is not so bad, this sanctuary. Notre Dame has been my home since I left Spain."

"I know," Marguerite said, crossing her arms. "I've seen you running around town with the hunchback."

Heat scorched Sancha's cheeks. "He has a name, madame."

The woman eyed her momentarily, her lips puckering in distaste. "It's true, isn't it?"

"What?"

"That you've been cohabiting with that… man. People have been talking."

"It is no business of yours."

"It most certainly is my business now that everyone in Paris knows you're my granddaughter." Marguerite heaved a sigh and shook her head. A few strands of blonde hair escaped from her braid and fell into her eyes. "I haven't a clue where you and your mother get your tastes from, but they leave something to be desired. My own girl all but spat in my face when she ran off with a Jew, and now I come to find you're – "

"Happy with a man I love?" Sancha snapped. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

Marguerite threw her hands up in the air. "With the bell ringer? What a chore that must be! Love… What nonsense! You're old enough to know love's the stuff of court ballads and_ fabliaux_.* Of course, what women like you and Jeanne don't understand is that love isn't a foundation to build a life on. You both have your heads so far up in the clouds, I do not comprehend – "

"You are absolutely right," Sancha interrupted, jumping to her feet. The stool tipped over behind her and clattered to the floor. "You do not comprehend. And I wouldn't expect you to. You do not think I know what you did to my mother? How you tried to force her to marry an old and cruel man when she did not wish for it? You are a woman who cares nothing of a person's heart, only what they can do for you. Of_ course_ you wouldn't understand!"

Marguerite said through gritted teeth, "Jeanne threw away a prosperous arrangement for a student – a scoundrel. And he was a heathen to boot. And you, young lady, are living in sin with a creature who barely qualifies as a man. Explain what I am supposed to understand about that."

"Don't speak to me of Quasimodo like that," Sancha said fiercely, her hands balling into fists. "He is more noble and more beautiful than the fairest knight in this land. You may not know this, but I do. I have chosen him, and I wish for you to be respectful of my choices."

"Choices?" Marguerite sneered. "You are a descendant of the House of Beaumont. You have one choice: To marry well. Or rather, it would have been, if Jeanne had just listened to me and did what she was told."

"And what is 'well'?" Sancha demanded. "What do you think I want? To be married to a miserable old _aksi bashi?_"*

Marguerite sighed. "I do not know what an _aksi bashi_ is, girl…" Sancha carried on as if she didn't hear her.

"Or to a spoiled landowner who would sooner treat me as a servant?" She shook her head, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. "My mother married my father because he made her happy. And Quasimodo makes me happy. I ask you what is so wrong about that?"

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Marguerite stared up at her granddaughter with bulging eyes and tightly pressed lips. Sancha swallowed down hard and drew in a calming breath. At the back of her mind, her conscious continued to worry about Quasimodo's whereabouts, but at the same time, she was glad he wasn't around to see her lose her composure.

Eventually, her grandmother said, "You are no different than your mother. You would rather live in a drafty tower with a hunchback than claim your rightful status as a lady."

Sancha glared down at her. "I would not find happiness in such a life, madame." She raised a warning finger and added in a low and dangerous voice, "And if you wish to see me again, you will never say such cruel things against me, my parents, or my _esposo*_ again."

Marguerite opened her mouth to reply, but the rumbling of a carriage from down in the square drowned her words. The two women turned to the window, brows furrowed. The noblewoman couldn't possibly imagine who was out on the town this late; it was past curfew, and she had asked her driver to wait for her around the back of the church. There were a few shouts from under the window in a language she didn't recognize, followed by the cry of a man in distress. Gasping, Sancha rushed to the window and looked down, only to fall back with a terrible shriek.

"_Quasimodo!_"

Marguerite heaved herself to her feet and hurried to her granddaughter's side. "What is it, girl? What are you…"

She trailed off when she followed Sancha's horrified gaze. Down in the square stood Tomas de Tavera with the squire boy and the dreadful prison carriage he had arrived with earlier. Behind him, two guards held a bound and kneeling Quasimodo at sword-point.

* * *

_*** Tanca la porta amb set claus, : **_**Shut the door with seven keys**

_**Ferma el ferro dels set panys. : **_**Secure the latch with seven locks**

_**El que ha de ser, serà, : **_**What will be, will be **

_**I li tallaran les mans.": **_**And they will cut her hands **

***"_L'église, Sancha! Vas à l'église!": _"The church, Sancha! Go to the church!"**

*****_**judía**: _**Jewess**

*******_fabliaux_: Short, bawdy stories that were popular in France during the Early and High Middle Ages**

*****_**aksi bashi: **_**A Ladino expression that describes a grumpy or ****curmudgeonly person (though, take this with a grain of salt, as my only source was the Internet, and the Internet lies)**

*****_esposo_**: Husband (although Sancha and Quasimodo aren't married, it sounds better than "the guy I'm currently shacking up with". It's also a bit of a Freudian slip on Sancha's part)**

**Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you're all enjoying the story! A quick note, though: The next update might come a little late because there's a big edit I need to get through, and next weekend is promising to be rather busy for me. Never fear, though - I'm as passionate as ever about this story and want to share it in its entirety with you, dear reader. Until next time...**


	15. Chapter 14

**A/N: Well, looks like I was able to post after all! Hello again, dear reader, and welcome back to the story. Once again, thank you for all your comments and reviews - As always, they keep my spirits up!**

**A quick note before we begin: As a history major, I feel the need to address a historical inaccuracy I committed last chapter - I made it clear that Sancha's claim to sanctuary only lasted about forty days. Despite Quasimodo saying clearly in the movie that Esmeralda could stay at Notre Dame forever because "[she] has sanctuary", I assumed this was either a misstep on Disney's part, or Quasimodo was mistaken about late medieval ecclesiastic law (as I had learned in class that there was a time limit on this kind of immunity). Well, as it turns out, the forty days rule only applied to England; France did not regulate their sanctuary laws as strictly.**

**Unfortunately, I already wove the forty days stipulation into the narrative, so we're going to continue with it... Just know, dear readers, that I was the one who made a mistake, and not the character who lived his entire life in an ecclesiastic institution during the Middle Ages.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

_**"Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna"**_

_'Sanctuary', The Hunchback of Notre Dame_

Quasimodo struggled against the ropes that bound his wrists, trying in vain to find a way to break them without Tavera's men noticing. The rough fibres dug into his skin, and he bit down hard on the scarf that had been tied around his mouth. The slight movement drew the attention of the guards, and the younger of the two pressed the tip of his sword against his neck. The bell ringer stopped struggling and turned his worried gaze on Tavera, who was shouting something up to the North tower in Spanish.

It had all happened so fast. He had been on his way home when he ran into Esmeralda. She was returning to the caravans, but had beckoned him into an alleyway to share her idea of hiding Sancha in the old Court of Miracles once her claim to sanctuary expired. They had been alone and spoke in hushed voices.

"The old Court of Miracles could work, but we'd have to coordinate a time and meeting place before the last day," Quasimodo had told her.

Esmeralda agreed. "And maybe you should sneak her out before the due date. On the fortieth day, Tavera might come looking for her. I'll let Phoebus and the others know, too. I'm sure they'll have some ideas."

The idea of hiding Sancha in a place with such a tragic history made Quasimodo a little nervous, but he couldn't deny the plan was their best shot. He and Esmeralda had parted with a hug and well wishes, and no sooner had he turned the corner to go home was he stopped by a tall, imposing figure in a red habit.

Quasimodo could only guess that Tavera or one of his men had seen him and Esmeralda talking and knew they were planning something. He never got the chance to ask; as soon as he realized who stood in his way, Quasimodo had been accosted by two soldiers, bound, and informed that he was being arrested under suspicion of helping "the murderess" Sancha Bat Avram.

Quasimodo had been frightened, but not nearly as scared as he was now. Apart from the horrible sense of déjà vu he was experiencing, he finally understood why the cardinal had taken him. It wasn't for an interrogation, as he initially thought; Tavera was using him as bait.

With a sigh, Quasimodo hung his head and closed his eyes, finding brief solace in the darkness.

_Whatever you do, Sancha, stay put,_ he pleaded silently. _Please, please, stay inside…_

XXX

Sancha couldn't speak. She clapped both hands over her mouth, choking back sobs, as Tavera grinned ghoulishly up at the bell towers. The girl could have sworn he was able to see her from his vantage point, as his gaze had somehow found hers and held her immobile.

"_Buenas tardes, señorita_," he called. "I regret to inform you that your pet hunchback was caught conspiring with a _gitana_ against my men and myself, and therefore, against the Spanish Crown."

Marguerite was trying to say something, but all Sancha could hear was Tavera's clear and methodical oration.

"As such, I have half a mind to bring him to the Palace of Justice for questioning. Minister du Chastel has granted me such permissions, and I thought I would do you the courtesy of informing you."

"No…" Sancha's gaze shifted to rest on the bell ringer's kneeling form, fiery red bangs hiding his eyes as he bowed his head. "Quasimodo…"

"Alas, I know your race is partial to good bargains," Tavera continued, "so allow me to proposition one: Come down here and end this, and I won't arrest him. Stay up there if you like, little Jewess, but know this may be your last chance to look upon his twisted countenance again. The choice is yours."

A gust of wind dashed through the bell tower and whipped at her hair. Sancha exhaled with the breeze, two tears racing down her cheeks. In the silence that followed, she finally heard Marguerite in her ear.

"What's going on, girl? What is he saying?"

"He…" Sancha swallowed down the wave of nausea rising in her throat. "He has Quasimodo…"

"I can _see_ that," Marguerite snapped impatiently. "What does he _want?_"

Tavera continued to hold Sancha's gaze from his place in the square, and her entire body grew cold. Hardly hearing herself, she answered, "He will arrest him if I do not leave the church…"

Marguerite blinked, looking from her shell-shocked granddaughter to the square below. Briefly, the woman wondered where the night watch was and if they could do anything about this nonsense.

"What does he honestly expect will happen? Your bell ringer hasn't committed any crime." Marguerite sighed and shook her head with annoyance. "Sit tight, young lady. The hunchback will be released as soon as Minister du Chastel – "

"No," Sancha muttered. "No, he won't be released. You don't know what it is that Tavera is known for. Once he has arrested someone, they either become informants or they die." She looked up at her grandmother, tears and horror shimmering in her large, dark eyes. "And Quasimodo will never tell him a word on me."

Marguerite stared at her for a beat. "Well you're certainly not going to go out there, are you?"

Sancha didn't answer. Instead, her gaze wandered back to the window, and Tavera's distant shout of "I'm waiting" rose up into the night. Marguerite grabbed the young woman by the arm, her fingers digging into her sleeve.

"_Are you?_"

The girl stared down at the square, her breathing silent and her face vacant. When she finally looked back at the older woman, her entire face was pale, giving her haunted eyes a particularly hollowed-out look.

"Madame," she said quietly. "I will not see anyone else I love die in this lifetime."

Marguerite gaped. "Don't you dare – "

"If I do not leave this place," Sancha continued slowly, "he is going to die, and it will be my fault."

"You idiot girl," Marguerite snarled. She shoved Sancha's arm away and pointed out the window. "Don't you understand what's going on? If you walk out there, _you_ will die. You're being lured out!"

"I know." Sancha looked down at her hands, gently touching the polished emerald in her golden ring. "But it is the only way to ensure Quasimodo's safety. If Tavera does to him what he has done to my mother…" Sancha trailed off and drew in a deep breath. She looked as if she was going to be sick.

"Sancha…" Marguerite grabbed the young woman's shoulders and bent to look at her. Sancha was surprised to look up and see her grandmother's eyes were once again shiny with unshed tears. "Do not go out there. You're the last… You're the only thing left of Jeanne that I have. I'm ordering you, as both your superior and your grandmother, to obey me and stay in here."

Sancha bit down on her lip, the protectiveness numbness that enshrouded her heart threatening to crack. The noblewoman's eyes reminded her too much of her mother's, and in a disturbing moment of lucidity, Sancha realized they both looked similar when they were panicking.

Still, she had not forgotten that the man she loved was out in the square on borrowed time. As she stared into her grandmother's eyes, she was reminded of her mother's sacrifice. Finally, she understood what it meant to love someone so much she would do anything to make sure they would not be hurt. Personal safety be damned; if she had to live the rest of her life knowing Quasimodo had been a sacrificial lamb for the Inquisition, she would never sleep again.

"I'm sorry, madame" she said in a hoarse whisper. "But I cannot obey. If my mother taught me anything, it was that we all must take our own paths in this life."

With that, Sancha stood on her tiptoes and gave Marguerite a kiss on the cheek. Then, she gently removed her hands from her shoulders and hurried towards the staircase, unable to look the old woman in the eye.

As Sancha climbed down, she silently prayed to whoever was listening that the Marguerite would forgive her. Perhaps it was selfish to rob the lady of her last female descendant, but allowing a mass murderer to rob her of the man she loved was unacceptable. And, as Sancha entered the church, she hoped that she had not taken too much time in making her decision.

The cathedral was quiet and sombre, the pillars standing guard as Sancha moved down the aisle. She barely heard her footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceiling, only watching as the heavy double doors drew nearer. Her stomach roiled with nerves, and she swallowed down hard. If she was going to be ill, she could at least do it on Tavera's shoes and not in what she had come to recognize as her own foyer.

Too soon, her hands came to rest on the cool iron handles of the doors. With a glance over her shoulder, she silently thanked Notre Dame for sheltering her and affording her the opportunity to meet Quasimodo. Nothing in the church moved, but Sancha couldn't help but imagine the air around her lifting, almost as if some unseen entity had bestowed her with a kind smile.

With that, Sancha turned back to the doors, drew in a deep breath, and pushed them open.

XXX

Quasimodo's heart dropped when the groan of the cathedral doors echoed through the empty square. He jerked his head up to see Sancha's terrified face peaking out of the church. For a moment, she stayed there, and he genuinely thought she was only peering out to see what was going on.

But, then she emerged in full, and Quasimodo immediately tried to struggle free. The guard jabbed him again with his sword.

"_¡Cálmate!_"* he barked.

_What is she doing?_ Quasimodo wondered.

"Ah, finally! The lady graces us with her presence!" Tavera said over his shoulder in French.

Sancha squared her shoulders as the cardinal approached her, chin raised and lips trembling. "If I go with you, will you promise to release Quasimodo?"

_What are you doing, Sancha?!_

Tavera stopped and bowed his head, spreading his arms in a gesture of humility. "By all the saints that guard Notre Dame, I swear to let him go. I made a deal, did I not? I only expect you to hold up your end of the bargain."

A tense moment passed where no one spoke. Quasimodo watched with mounting horror as Sancha glanced over at him, her eyes wide and eerily glassy. "Will you let me say goodbye?" she asked Tavera.

The inquisitor shrugged and waved his hand as he turned from her. "I'll allow it, but don't take all night. It's a long journey back to Spain."

As he walked towards the prisoner carriage, Tavera shot off a few commands in Spanish, and suddenly Quasimodo was relieved of both the sword at his throat and the scarf around his mouth. One of the guards went to join Tavera by the carriage, and the other stepped aside and Sancha ran over to Quasimodo. She dropped down to her knees before him, her pallid face inches from his.

"I don't want you worry, _mi alma_," she said breathlessly. "Everything will be all right."

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, fighting to control his voice. "Go back inside, please, before they…"

Sancha sniffed and shook her head as she brushed his bangs from his eyes. "I cannot do that. If I return, they will take your life, and I cannot let that happen."

The mask of calm she wore began to crumble, tears spilling onto her cheeks and her mouth pressing shut to repress a sob. Words failed him. Confronted by her frightened eyes and the restraints around his body, Quasimodo was taken back to another time not long ago, where he watched on in horror as someone else he cared for chose death over the alternative.

"No, please…" he moaned.

Sancha bit down on her lip as the sob escaped, and she reached for his shoulders.

"Quasimodo, I want you to know…" She smiled, and though it was twisted with pain, it was genuine. "You made me so happy. I don't want you to ever forget that."

She tipped forward and planted a soft, sincere kiss on his lips. "I love you – "

"All right, that's enough." Tavera's voice barked from on high. "You're making me sick."

And in an instant, the squire had Sancha by the elbows. He hauled her up and away from Quasimodo, dragging her to the prisoner carriage. Her hands, her lips, and her warmth left the bell ringer, along with his last shred of self-control.

_"SANCHA!"_

The snap of a rope shot through the square, and Quasimodo might have felt a sharp pain in his wrists as he pulled his bindings loose, had it not been for the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The guards cried out in surprise and lunged for him, but with a well-timed duck and a powerful shove, the bell ringer sent both Diego and Gomez toppling over each other and onto the ground.

Quasimodo ran as fast as he could towards the prisoner carriage, where Juan was attempting to force Sancha into the cage. Tavera shouted something in Spanish and leapt from his seat at the front of the vehicle. Sancha, realizing what Quasimodo was doing, tangled her legs with the squire's and heeled him in the apex of his thighs. With a cry, the young man crumpled to the ground, and Sancha ran to Quasimodo.

Tavera came around the other side of the carriage and reached for her. But, before he could so much as graze her shoulder, Quasimodo grabbed Sancha, swept her off her feet, and took off in the opposite direction of Notre Dame. Sancha looped her arms around his neck and held on tightly, gathering fistfuls of his tunic in her hands.

"Don't let go," Quasimodo told her as he shifted her weight. They were approaching a shopfront, where a loose awning rope waited for them. As long as Sancha dropped her legs when he let his left arm go, he should have been able to climb up with her.

His estimation was correct. With Sancha hanging on parallel to him, Quasimodo was able to climb up the rope and reach the awning. Shifting Sancha's weight again, he leapt up to the roof, using the gables as leverage, and dashed off over the uneven tiles with her. Tavera was left screaming below in their wake.

Leaping from roof to roof, Quasimodo ran as fast as he could through the city. Sancha, positioned once again in a bridal-style hold, clung to him for dear life. She buried her face in his shoulder, praying to whoever was listening that the light of the full moon would be enough to guide them safely away from the Inquisition. She had no idea why they were going away from the sanctuary, but she was too shaken to ask. Instead, she held her breath and braced herself for the next big jump.

XXX

Tavera pulled at his hair and bellowed like an enraged bull. He marched over to Juan and yanked him up off the ground, ignoring the greenish pallor in the youth's face.

"_¡Pendejo!_" he snarled. "You let her escape again! Some knight you'll make, who can't even handle one stupid woman."

He threw the squire back against the carriage and turned to see a shaken Gomez helping Diego to his feet.

"And you two," Tavera shouted, spit flying from his lips. "Are you not trained soldiers?!"

"Sir, the hunchback is stronger than any man I've ever known," Gomez stammered. Tavera thought he might throttle the man.

"I won't entertain any excuses," the cardinal raged, shoving his subordinate. "Get out there and find her – _Now!_"

With a rueful look, Gomez muttered, "Yes, sir", and departed with Diego, who had been shamed into an embarrassed silence. When they were gone, Tavera rushed over to the carriage and tore at the straps of the horse's harness.

"Your Eminence?" Juan began weakly, peeking around the side of the cage. Tavera said nothing as he pushed past the squire, opened the lower compartment of the carriage, and produced the youth's own training sword. Without a word, he buckled the sheath around his waist.

"Guard the carriage," Tavera ordered as he mounted the newly freed horse. Ignoring Juan's half-formed protests, the cardinal dug his heels into his steed's sides and took off at a gallop. He didn't even spare the bewildered archdeacon a passing glance, who had emerged from the cathedral to investigate the commotion.

With only moonlight to guide him, Tavera surged through the streets of Paris, his teeth grinding together as he scanned the rooftops for a misshapen silhouette.

_I will find her, and I will kill her myself_, he silently vowed, _if it's the last thing I do on this earth._

* * *

**_*¡Cálmate!" : _"Calm down!" **

**As I'm sure you can tell, dear reader, we're reaching the climax of the story. There are only a few chapters left, which makes me a little sad, but I'm also very excited to share them with you.**

**That being said, better strap in, kids - We're descending from gothic romance into gothic horror very soon! But that's all I'll say on the matter for now ;)**

**Thank you for reading!**


	16. Chapter 15

**A/N: Welcome back, dear reader! Before we begin, many thanks for the reviews/comments/messages. They always bring a smile to my face :)**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

_**"Here in the Court of Miracles,**_

_**Where it's a miracle if you get out alive."**_

_'Court of Miracles', Hunchback of Notre Dame_

When Quasimodo and Sancha landed on solid ground again, it was in the cemetery off the Île de la Cité. As he gently set her down amongst the graves, Quasimodo panted, "I think we lost them. You'll be safe here."

"How?" Sancha looked around the crudely carved and lopsided headstones. "We are in an open field."

"Come with me."

Quasimodo grabbed her hand and led her through the gravesites until they came upon a mausoleum, where the intricately carved crypt was overseen by the emblem of a Greek cross.

"This is the Court of Miracles," he said with an unceremonious wave of his hand. "Esmeralda told me earlier what you two talked about… I think it's better for you to hide here, now."

There was an uncharacteristic edge to his voice, something that immediately made Sancha uneasy. Was he angry with her?

"Quasimodo…"

"What?"

The word wasn't necessarily unkind, but it came out quick and stoic. It was hard to see his expression in the darkness, but Sancha could tell he wasn't looking at her. Her heart began to sink a little.

"_Mi alma_, I – "

"Sancha, why did you leave the church?" he asked suddenly, cutting her off. "You relinquished your claim to sanctuary for good. You… I… You were nearly taken away…"

He almost whispered the last word. Heat bloomed over Sancha's cheeks, and tears threatened with a sting at the back of her eyes. "They had you, Quasimodo… I could not allow them to take you from me. It was the only way to save your life."

"But what about _your_ life?" Quasimodo asked. He finally looked at her, and though there was hardly any light in the graveyard, his eyes appeared to shimmer. "You could have been killed. Why did you – ?"

"Because I love you," Sancha interrupted. Her voice echoed through the cemetery, and everything, even the wind, appeared to fall silent. She hurriedly wiped at her eyes and held Quasimodo's gaze in the darkness as best as she could.

"That is the answer to your 'why'," she continued, quietly. "I love you, and I would rather died than see you fall to the Inquisition."

Neither of them moved as the gravity of her words settled over them. After a beat, Sancha rushed over and threw her arms around him. Quasimodo caught her, and Sancha didn't see the tears slip from his eyes, or the dazed look on his face. She only felt his arms come around her and hold her protectively against him.

"I'm sorry, _mi alma_," she sobbed, her voice muffled. "But I couldn't allow them to have you… I can't bear the thought, not after…"

Quasimodo hushed her gently and drew away from her. Quickly rubbing the tears out of his own eyes, he smiled at her and held her steady by the shoulders. With a gentle hand, he brushed a lock of hair from her eyes and said in a hoarse whisper, "It's okay, Sancha. I'm sorry, too."

She sniffed. "Tavera will be looking for the two of us, now."

"You don't have to worry about that," Quasimodo told her softly, cupping her cheek. "You'll be safe in the Court of Miracles; he won't know where to look."

Sancha looked up at the mausoleum and blinked. "_Pero_, that is only a grave. How…?"

She trailed off when Quasimodo gripped the top of the tomb and pushed it aside. The girl gasped and recoiled when the slab fell away to reveal a seemingly endless abyss.

"This is the entrance," the bell ringer explained. "Stay by the staircase, and don't wander off into the tunnels. I'm going to find a light for you. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Sancha tried in vain to keep the trepidation off her face. After narrowly avoiding what she thought was certain death, the last thing she wanted to do was crawl down into a dark crypt. Furthermore, she didn't like the idea of Quasimodo running off through the city with Tavera on the loose.

Still, what other choice did she have? With a deep breath, she took her first step into the grave.

"Hurry back," she said to him, unable to keep her voice from wavering. "And be careful. If Tavera finds you again…"

"He won't. I promise," Quasimodo assured her.

A cloud moved over the moon, blotting out whatever light remained in the cemetery. In the near darkness, Sancha felt him cage her face with his hands, his thumb running down her cheek. "Please, stay hidden until it's safe," he said. "For a moment back there, I thought I lost you. I don't want to ever lose you…"

With a lump in her throat, Sancha stood on her tiptoes and circled her arms around his neck, her lips finding his in the darkness. Despite the threat of a chase on their heels, she took her time and only broke off the kiss when she felt ready.

"You will not lose me," she murmured. "Not now, and not ever."

With that, she retreated down the stairs and into the shadows. Sancha stayed at the bottom of the steps, the unending abyss at her back, and watched Quasimodo move the top of the tomb back over the opening. As darkness cut across her face, Sancha said, "I hope you understand that I was serious about what I said before… I meant those words…"

Quasimodo paused, peering down at her through the half-covered entrance. The cloud that was covering the moon moved away and tossed a measure of light into the crypt. Sancha watched as the young man's expression softened, his eyes both terribly sad and deliriously happy at the same time.

"I know," he murmured. "I love you too, Sancha."

The girl's heart leapt, and she nearly reached out for him again. But, she restrained herself, hugging her arms as Quasimodo sealed the entrance again. Darkness engulfed her, and as she stared into nothingness, only her shallow breaths and his words kept the ghosts that lurked at bay.

XXX

The sound of a horse's hooves striking the cobalt stones drew Esmeralda from her caravan. At first, she thought it was Phoebus, returning from a horse trade deal in the next town over with other men. Instead, she rounded the corner to see Grand Inquisitor Tavera speed through an intersection on a skittish-looking draught horse. She watched him go, red robes streaming behind him in their wake.

Esmeralda's stomach dropped as her intuition immediately told her something had happened to either Quasimodo or Sancha. Ignoring the dangers of venturing out into the night, she ran back to her living quarters, grabbed Djali, threw a cloak over them both, and tried to calmly make her way to Notre Dame. Thankfully, she was camped out only a few blocks away from the cathedral and made it there, undetected, in no time.

She didn't know what she was expecting to find at Notre Dame, but it certainly wasn't the scene she was met with: The doors to the grand church stood wide open, a mouth gaping in incredulity at the horse-less prison carriage and the abandoned harness with its sad, torn stays. The squire boy was leaning against the carriage, holding his stomach, and the archdeacon was on the steps, consoling a hysterical Madame de Beaumont.

"They couldn't have gone far," the clergyman was saying. "There's nothing we can do about it right now, madame."

"There has to be something!" the woman screeched, angrily wiping away her tears. "I will not have my granddaughter fall into that m-monster's hands again, and if I find out your bell ringer has taken off with her for good, I swear…"

Esmeralda recoiled back into the shadows, covering a gasp. Djali made a concerned noise at the back of his throat. Whatever had happened, Cardinal Tavera was enraged, and Sancha and Quasimodo weren't in the bell tower anymore. Esmeralda could only think of one other place they could be.

Well-concealed in shadows, the gypsy girl shrugged off her cloak and put the goat down. After throwing the garment back over her shoulders, she murmured, "Come on, Djali", and took off at a run down the street. Djali clip-clopped at her heels, following her to the only other entrance to the Court of Miracles in Paris. Neither noticed that Juan, who was consumed by thoughts of redeeming himself before Tavera, noticed their retreat down the alleyway…

XXX

Melancholic humming echoed through the catacombs as Sancha sang to herself. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she gazed into the abyss of the crypt and willed whatever was in the dark to stay far from her. The atmosphere was all-consuming and oppressive, and each second that passed felt like an eternity.

She trailed off when a dim light began to glow somewhere down the stairs. At first, Sancha thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, but as the light grew, she also heard footsteps. Assuming it was Quasimodo, she held her breath and crept towards the light source with outstretched hands.

But when she rounded the corner, a pair of luminous emerald eyes were there to meet her instead of the expectant blue-grey.

"Esmeralda?" Sancha gasped.

The gypsy girl came to an abrupt halt, her free hand over her heart and Djail's nose peeking out from behind her skirts. The other hand held a torch, illuminating the narrow corridor in which they stood. The stone walls were lined with the grinning skulls of Paris's dead.

"Sancha!" she murmured. "Are you all right? Where's Quasi?"

She told Esmeralda a short version of Quasimodo's capture by Tavera and her voluntary relinquishment of Notre Dame's sanctuary. Even recounting the events out loud sounded unreal in Sancha's ears.

Esmeralda sighed when the girl's story came to an end. "Thank God you're both okay," she said softly. "We should go back to the cemetery entrance. Quasimodo should be here in no time."

She stepped around Sancha and touched her shoulder in a gentle, guiding gesture. The hair on the back of Sancha's neck immediately stood on end, but not because of the contact. A wave of dread washed over her, and when Djali gave an alarming bleat, the two women looked over their shoulders just in time to see a blade swing for them.

"_¡Cuidado!_"* Sancha screamed. She grabbed Esmeralda and pulled her out of the way, but the girl wasn't fast enough to avoid getting nicked by the weapon. Searing pain cut through her sleeve and into her flesh, pulling a feral cry from her throat. Amidst the chaos, Esmeralda dropped the torch on the ground, the firelight revealing the twisted, lunatic face of Tomas de Tavera.

He swung again, wildly and inaccurately. Sancha and Esmeralda separated to dodge the attack, and Tavera's sword struck the wall of skulls behind them. A severe oath echoed through the catacombs, and as he struggled to free his blade, Esmeralda grabbed the fallen torch and Sancha's uninjured arm.

"_Run!_"

Sancha followed her friend. Skulls clattered to the floor in their wake as Tavera freed his blade, but she didn't dare look over her shoulder. Just as she had done back in Toledo, she ran. She ran through the dark, twisting tunnels with Esmeralda and Djali. She rushed headlong into uncertainty, terrified for her life. Even as they lost Tavera in the maze of tunnels, even as the wound in her arm seeped and burned, Sancha only concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as fast as she could.

XXX

The top of the tomb groaned in protest Quasimodo pushed the slab aside with his free hand. The fire of the lantern he held warmed his face and beaded sweat upon his brow. The journey to and from Notre Dame has been fraught with close calls, and every step he took seemed to slow him down. He peered down into the darkness, wishing only to see Sancha's face again and confirm that she was okay.

But, as the slab fell away from its usual position to reveal an empty staircase, Quasimodo's apprehension froze over into cold dread. He flew down the stairs, lantern held high, calling Sancha's name. After rounding the corner to find the antechamber empty, panic rose in his stomach and closed up his throat. He was just starting to see spots when something crunched underfoot and broke him out the spell.

Quasimodo lifted his foot to see the shattered remains of a human cranium scattered over the ground. Crying out in disgust, he recoiled and lifted the lantern again. The wall of remains before him had been disturbed by some force, some skulls cleaved in two, some cracked, and others completely fallen away from their rightful resting place.

Horrified, the bell ringer dropped his gaze, where he noticed something worse than disturbed graves: A splash of bright red on the floor, not far off from the ruined wall. A trail of droplets led the way down the corridor.

He didn't even have to wonder if the worst had happened. Quasimodo bolted down the passageway and ran blindly through the catacombs, overtaken by the panic that had threatened earlier. Sancha's name left his lips in frantic shouts, each echo louder than the last.

XXX

Sancha didn't remember the exact moment when the torch went out. All she knew was that she was running ahead of Esmeralda, and then the light behind her burned out. With a hiss of pain from the gypsy, something (perhaps the stub of the torch) clattered to the floor, and the two women's panting filled the abyss that engulfed them.

"E-Esmeralda – "

"Keep going."

Sancha nearly screamed when a hand grabbed her elbow, but when she realized it was only her friend leading her, she clamped her lips shut. Slowly, the two of them made their way down the corridor, the tapping of Esmeralda's free hand on the stone walls ringing through the empty space. Sancha jumped when one tap was followed by a thunderous grinding sound.

"Stay here," Esmeralda whispered as she turned Sancha around and gently pushed her forward. "I'm going to find Quasimodo."

Before Sancha could ask where she was being left, the grinding sound interrupted her, and as soon the sound faded into the air, she understood that she had been separated from Esmeralda. She was alone in the crypt once again.

With a shaky breath, Sancha turned and immediately tripped down a set of unseen stairs. As she flew down the steps, something tangled around her ankle and pulled. She landed hard on the unforgiving floor, grinding her chin into the roughhewn stone. Hissing in pain, she pushed herself up onto her elbows and touched the point of contact. When she drew her hand away, she saw her fingertips were slick with blood.

It took her a moment of stunned silence before realizing how she could even see that she was bleeding.

With a gasp, Sancha raised her head and saw several oil lamps hanging from a high, vaulted ceiling. Fire blazed in their recesses, throwing light down onto the expansive space before her. Sancha looked back at her trapped leg and saw a tangled cord leading from her ankle up to the oil lamp near the secret door. A hunk of flint and rusty axe balanced precariously from the rope, positioned carefully against the metal lamp. Sancha quickly freed herself and got to her feet.

The chamber she had fallen into was nearly as big as the square at Notre Dame. As she took in her surroundings, she knew immediately this was the Court of Miracles proper. The sight made her heart ache: Overturned tables littered the floor, torn curtain hung motionless from the ceiling, and waves of personal belongings spilled from half-destroyed caravans.

Sancha moved slowly and soundlessly through the Court, gazing around at the destruction, wondering how many people had once occupied the place. She shuddered, haunted by a strange sense of déjà vu. She knew what had happened here; Quasimodo had told her. Just as Tavera had swept through her judería, Frollo had ransacked the Court last year and arrested everyone he and his men could catch.

A raised platform off to the side caught her eye. Sancha looked up to see the gallows towering over her, two nooses waiting silently for a pair of necks. She swallowed over the lump in her throat and closed her eyes. Though her chin and arm throbbed, nothing hurt worse than the ache in her chest.

The grinding of stone pierced the silence without warning. Sancha spun around, believing for just a moment that Judge Claude Frollo would materialize there and attempt to arrest her.

Instead, the deranged expression of Tomas de Tavera emerged from the shadows. With his sword drawn, he made his way down the stairs. His teeth ground together, and his dark brown bangs fell into his bulging, bloodshot eyes.

"Thought you could run forever, _puta?_" he said, his voice hoarse. A ghost of a smile passed over his lips. "I've got you now."

* * *

* "**_¡Cuidado!" : _"Watch out!"**

**As always, thank you for reading! More on the way... **


	17. Chapter 16

**A/N: Hello, dear reader. I feel like I owe you an apology: I've tried to upload chapters on a weekly basis, but this one got away from me because this chapter required more editing than usual, and the holidays in general just made things way busier for me. In any case, please enjoy this last chapter (excluding an upcoming epilogue) of "The Jewess of Toledo"!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

_**"Voca me cum benedictis**_

_**Confutatis maledictis**_

_**Gere curam mei finis"**_

_'And He Shall Smite the Wicked', Hunchback of Notre Dame_

Sancha backed away, her heart slamming into her chest. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to run, but she didn't know where to go. Her eyes stung.

"Why?" she asked. "Why are you doing this?"

Tavera didn't answer. Instead, he picked up his pace and advanced on Sancha. His eyes glazed over as he levelled his sword at her neck.

Sancha dodged the attack at the last minute. The blade struck the floor, sending up a handful of sparks from the stones. Tavera shouted something unintelligible as Sancha hid behind a dusty old caravan.

"_Leave me alone!_" she screamed. "You expelled the last Jew from Toledo! What more do you want!?"

Tavera swung blindly in the direction of her voice. His weapon crashed into the side of the wagon, causing the whole thing to shudder. Splinters exploded over her head.

"You're a murderess!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the Court. "I want you dead!"

Sancha ducked and ran towards the gallows, where four massive posts supported the platform above her head. She hid behind one and watched Tavera whip his head around, looking for her. Sadly, the inquisitor's accusation wormed its way into her heart, and Sancha forgot to bite her tongue.

"_You_ are the murderer," she screamed. "You killed my parents!"

"They killed my son!"

He stormed over towards the gallows. Sancha made a run for it again but found herself up against another wall. She was trapped.

"They did not!" she cried. "And neither did I!"

She knelt and fumbled on the ground, her eyes on Tavera's advancing figure. Her hands searched for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon. He was coming up on her fast.

"My boy was found dead and bloodless in the forest. Explain that to me, Jewess."

"I don't know what happened!" Her seeking hands found nothing. "None of us did!"

Tavera's shadow loomed large over the wall and overtook her crouched form. Sancha made another attempt at escape, but this time, she wasn't fast enough. Tavera grabbed her injured arm, ignoring her anguished cry, and held his sword against her throat. His eyes bored into hers, and Sancha felt her pulse push against the sharp end of the blade.

"So typical of your kind to lie your way out of crimes," Tavera muttered through clenched teeth. "But I know the truth, and as the sins of the father shall be thrust upon the son, mine and my family's souls are still at risk as long as even one Jew lives. Understand that I am trying to pay my dues. You, too, will pay for what you've done, Sancha Bat Avram, tonight and for eternity."

Sancha squeezed her eyes shut, a pair of tears rolling down her cheeks. "Please… Please, don't do this…"

The blade pushed warningly against her neck. Sancha's mind reeled, and she didn't dare move or even swallow. All she could heard was the heavy, slow breathing of Tavera, whose face was inches from hers. The anticipation was so awful, she almost wished he would just cut her throat and get it over with.

"I'm a fair man,_ señorita_…"

The sound of his voice almost made her jump. Sancha opened her eyes to see he had turned from her and was smiling up at the gallows. "And I mete out fair punishment, as well. As clergy are forbidden to spill blood, I don't intend to break such a commandment tonight…"

Before she could blink her tears away, Tavera stepped behind her, his sword still angled against her throat. He pinned her lacerated arm behind her back, and muttered one command in her ear:

"Move."

XXX

Quasimodo didn't quite remember how he ran into Esmeralda and Djali. One moment, he was racing blindly through the catacombs, and the next, they were in front of him. The gypsy was holding her own lantern high above her head, the freshly lit firelight reflecting back a sharp alertness in her eyes. He didn't even question why she was in the catacombs in the first place; he was too scared to wonder about it.

"Quasi – " Esmeralda started, but he spoke at the same time as her.

"He's got her – Tavera's got Sancha – I – "

"Quasimodo," Esmeralda said softly but urgently, laying a hand on his arm. "I led her to the old Court; she's safe, but we're exposed in these tunnels. Follow me, and we'll – "

A scream pierced darkness and echoed somewhere within the catacombs. The two friends froze for a second as they came to the same conclusion: That was Sancha's voice, and she sounded like she was in danger.

"Come on!"

Quasimodo grabbed Esmeralda's hand and made a move to run down the pathway into darkness. The only reason he stopped was because he felt her pull away.

"This way," Esmeralda said as she tugged him in the opposite direction. "Hurry!"

Trusting her to know the way, Quasimodo turned on his heel and took off with Esmeralda and Djali, trying desperately to outrun the dread of being too late to save the woman he loved.

XXX

Tavera walked Sancha up the steps to the gallows and underneath the lowest hanging noose. He slipped it over her head, ignoring her pleas for mercy, and stepped back when the rope was secure. Sancha stared out at the Court below, hardly believing she was about to die alone in the catacombs of Paris.

Returning the sword to its scabbard, Tavera stepped back, cleared his throat, and recited the words he had been practicing for months now.

"Sancha Bat Avram, you stand before me tonight having been found guilty of the crimes of blood libel, Marranism, resisting arrest, and possessing substances that – "

"Esmeralda!" Sancha screamed. "Quasimodo!"

The strike came out of nowhere, but the back of Tavera's hand landed a blow so hard on her cheek, her head spun. He glared down at her with such contempt, it nearly hurt more than the slap.

"Silence," he snarled. "I give you a chance to hear your sentences and recant, and this is the thanks I get?"

"Go to hell," Sancha spat.

Tavera reached up and tugged slightly on the rope. Sancha's breath hitched as the cord tightened around her neck.

"Odd," he murmured coolly. "Your father said that too, before I put him to the _strappado_."

In that moment, Sancha thought she was going to be sick. She stared at Tavera in horror, and had it not been for the rope around her neck, she would have lunged at him.

"Now," Tavera said, reaching for the nearby lever. "Give your parents my best when you meet them again in hell."

Sancha squeezed her eyes shut. In the darkness, a face floated before her. First, it was the dark, bearded face of her father. Then, Avram's visage morphed into the fair, blonde image of her mother. Finally, Jeanne's image faded and gave way to Quasimodo's skewed but kind smile. Seeing him, Sancha sobbed aloud.

_I love you_, she thought. _I love you all._

She braced herself, preparing for the floor to fall out from beneath her feet.

But, it never came.

Tavera's choked-out exclamation made her eyes snap open again. She watched in amazement as the second noose flew over his head and tightened, as if the rope had a will of its own. The sword clattered to the platform as his elbows were drawn back behind him. Over his shoulder, Sancha saw Esmeralda holding the rope, her eyes blazing.

"Say one more word," she warned, "and you'll be able to tell them yourself."

"What in God's – ?" Tavera twisted his body, his eyes wide and disbelieving when she saw a dancer's scarf bound around his wrists in intricate knots. Sancha barely had time to understand what had happened before she saw Quasimodo's hunched figure behind Tavera, securing the last knot. When he looked up at her, Sancha almost wept with relief.

As Esmeralda bent to secure Tavera's ankles with another scarf, the bell ringer ran to help Sancha, using the discarded sword to cut the noose. As soon as the rope fell away from Sancha's neck, she was swept up in Quasimodo's arms, crushed against him until she could barely breathe. Her arm throbbed in protest, but she didn't care. She tightened her embrace, savouring the softness of his hair, the scent of light incense that clung to his clothes, every bend and curve of his body… Things she never thought she would ever experience again.

"_Mi alma_," she whispered, "how did you find me?"

"We heard you scream," Quasimodo answered, his hand cradling the back of her head. "Esmeralda knew another way in… Oh, Sancha…"

He pressed her head to the dip of his neck, where she planted a soft kiss. They only separated slightly when a crashed erupted from the side of the gallows – Esmeralda had kicked Tavera's sword off the platform, apparently after cutting away the cardinal's own noose. Shred of rope lay forgotten at his bound feet, and Tavera wobbled precariously as he gaped at the three of them.

"And we'll be leaving that way too," Esmeralda said before turning to address Tavera. "You are going to stay here until morning. Someone from the Palace of Justice will eventually come for you, but I can't promise they'll be as nice as us."

Tavera glared at Esmeralda and spat a vile curse at her. He struggled in vain against his restraints as he shouted, "You are a gypsy – You'll never have an audience with the Minister!"

"Maybe not." Esmeralda couldn't keep the smirk off her face. "But I do know the former Captain of the Guard. I'm sure he'll put a good word in."

Tavera continued to pull at his wrists, swearing and dropping half formed sentences. He tried pull an ankle free, but only succeeded in getting his clerical robes tangled in his legs. Esmeralda ignored him and glanced over at her friends. "Sancha, are you all right?"

"_Sí_," she murmured, rubbing her neck.

"Good. Follow me."

Quasimodo held fast to Sancha's hands as they walked past Tavera, leading her down the stairs after Esmeralda. As they left, the cardinal shouted, "My boy and I will not be damned because of your treachery, Jewess! I'll see to it that you're put to the pyre, just like your mother and father!"

Sancha stopped on the first step and abruptly pulled her hand from Quasimodo's. Before he could say anything, Sancha strode back to the bound and red-faced Tavera. She raised her hand and struck him across the face, just as he had done to her. The slap echoed through the Court of Miracles, like a burst of mocking laughter.

"You damned yourself when you made the first arrest in my_ judería_," Sancha said contemptuously. "Because, while you hunted me and my people, your son's murderer was left to walk free. Should you ever met your boy again, I would beg his forgiveness for your failure to avenge him properly."

She wasn't sure what happened next, but the chaos was preceded by the sound of tearing fabric and the roar of an enraged man. Tavera's hands were suddenly loose, strips of Esmeralda's scarf fluttering from his wrists as he lunged from Sancha.

When his fingers closed over the neck of her dress, the girl stumbled backwards, and her heels met nothing but the stale air. Her scream mingled with cries of her name, and she swung her arms wildly for purchase. Tavera's weight and momentum sent them both over the edge of the platform and sailing through the air.

As they plummeted down Tavera's hands left Sancha's bodice. The world fell in a colourful blur around her, and Sancha completely expected her brains to be dashed on the stones below. Unable to do a thing to stop it, she braced herself, listening to her own cries echo through the chamber.

Instead of stone, though, she landed in pair of strong, warm arms. With a breathy "oof!", she glanced up to see Quasimodo's soft gaze, relief shining in his blue-grey eyes. After realizing she was safe, Sancha choked out a sob and hugged him.

After a moment, she pulled away and looked at the floor, remembering what had happened only seconds ago. There was a pit in her stomach, but she only got to see Tavera's feet splayed on the floor before darkness descended over her gaze.

"Don't look, Sancha," Quasimodo told her, holding his hand to her eyes.

"I-Is he…?" Sancha couldn't finish the sentence, and Quasimodo could only answer with a soft, "Yes."

Footsteps descended the gallows steps, and as Quasimodo turned, he lifted his hand from Sancha's eyes. The girl looked up to see Esmeralda coming down from the platform. As she approached them, she refused to look at what had become of Tavera behind them, her gaze both relieved and a little troubled.

"Are you hurt?" she asked Sancha, softly.

The girl could only shake her head.

"All right. Let's go, before anyone else comes down here."

Esmeralda turned and walked off into the Court, picking her way through the debris. Quasimodo didn't let Sancha back down onto her feet, opting instead to carry her out of the Court of Miracles. Sancha laid her head against his chest, closing her eyes as a surreal sense of calm settled over her. Tavera was gone. He was gone, and he would never terrorize her, or another person, ever again.

She heaved a sigh and listened to the heartbeat of the man she loved. There was no sweeter sound in the world.

"I knew you would protect me," she whispered, both to herself and him.

In response, Quasimodo shifted her weight and laid a kiss on the top of her head. "And I always will."

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**Stay tuned for the epilogue! As always, thank you so much for reading! :) **


	18. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_**"In my eyes, you are beautiful too,**_

_**Sharing the top of the world."**_

_'Finale', Hunchback of Notre Dame_

_One Month Later…_

Sancha sat at the mezzanine window, a mug of tea in hand. The cup before her steamed, inviting her to take the first sip. Instead, she watched the goings-on in the square below, observing the merchants and farmers set up their stands and hawk their wares. It was well past noon, and Quasimodo had left about an hour ago to put up banns with Phoebus. Esmeralda was supposed to visit later, but until then, Sancha savoured her time alone in the bell tower.

After Tavera's death, there had been no shortage of chaos. As soon as they left the catacombs, Sancha had needed her arm to be stitched and cauterized, which left her permanently scarred. As she sat by the window, the girl absentmindedly ran her hand over the mangled flesh, now hidden by her dress sleeve. It had stopped hurting a while ago, but she always knew it was there. The scar was a small price to pay for her life, and though recovery had been slow, Sancha was simply happy to have escaped with what she considered minimal damage.

After returning to Notre Dame, Marguerite had found her and given her an earful about risking her life and abandoning her claim to sanctuary. The bell towers practically shook with the old woman's admonishments, her screams almost louder than the bells. Despite everything, Sancha didn't blame her grandmother for flying into a rage over her actions. She had scared Marguerite badly, and she recognized the noblewoman's right to be upset. Still, Sancha had heard the sentence, "You could have been killed" so many times, the words eventually lost all meaning.

Marguerite's presence was not a total detriment to her granddaughter's peace, though. Since Sancha was technically a member of the House of Beaumont, Philippe du Chastel was hard pressed to blame Sancha for the death of Tomas de Tavera. Esmeralda had a working theory that Philippe only wanted to rule Tavera's death as an accident because the cardinal had caused so much trouble in Paris. Whether it was because of her maternal lineage or a personal grudge, Sancha would take any bid to freedom she could afford. All that mattered now was that there was no reason to live in fear anymore.

Watching the square, she raised her cup to her lips and hesitated. Sancha drew the mug away and stared at the steaming, reddish water. In a little more than a week, she would finally be married, free to continue her journey through life, unimpeded, with a man she adored. The very idea made her break out in a giddy smile. After some consideration, she leaned over to make sure no one was directly below her and dumped her tea out the window.

A rattle from the mezzanine staircase drew her attention. Sancha turned, expecting to see Esmeralda. Instead, her stomach fluttered when she saw Quasimodo's red head appear over the edge of the platform. She practically ran to greet him.

"How was it?" Sancha asked as he caught her up in a tight hug.

"Just fine," he laughed. "A lot of people came to say congratulations. Some looked a little surprised."

Sancha broke away from him and raised an eyebrow. "If anyone in this city has paid attention, they would not be surprised."

Quasimodo smiled and touched his fiancée's cheek. After a few weeks of stress, Sancha had regained some of the rosiness in her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes. She was starting to laugh more, and she no longer talked feverishly in her sleep like she used to. With each passing day, he thought she appeared lovelier than ever.

"It doesn't matter," he told her. "As long as you're happy, I'm happy."

Sancha smiled at him, caressing the hand that held her cheek. After a moment of observing him, she asked, "Are _you_ surprised?"

Quasimodo's gaze went to the ground. He knew better than to fib to her. "Maybe a little bit… I never thought I'd ever get married…"

When he looked up again, Sancha was ready with a gentle kiss and a soft voice.

"I never thought I would be so fortunate to have such a husband," she murmured. "Every girl in Paris shall be jealous of me."

His expression must have said more than his words ever could, because Sancha laughed and followed up with a change of subject.

"I made lunch. Do you wish to eat it on the roof with me?"

With a smile, Quasimodo nodded and silently accepted Sancha's previous assertion. As of late, he had been getting better at believing her when she said things like that. Still, there was a subject neither of them had broached yet, and Quasimodo had been thinking of a proper way to bring it up. On their way to the roof, he decided now was good a time as any, especially since banns announcing their marriage were now posted throughout Paris.

"Sancha, there's something I want to ask you."

"Yes,_ cariño?_"

She glanced at him, her gaze sweet and unassuming, but Quasimodo still hesitated. Although he had been circling back to this issue since he asked Sancha to marry him, he was afraid of making her upset. After everything they had both been through, reminding her of past traumas was the last thing he wanted to do.

Still, he had already started asking, so he pushed on.

"Is there… Is there anything that needs to be done for… Well, since we're about to get married, I wanted to know… Is there anything that your f-father would have wanted?"

"My father?"

They pushed through a door and onto one of the balconies of the South tower, which led to their picnic spot on the flatter part of the roof. As they settled down, Sancha watched her fiancé carefully, her brow furrowed.

"I-It's just, I've only ever seen Christian weddings performed here." Quasimodo stared down at his folded legs. "I've never seen a Jewish wedding before… They must be different in some ways…?"

His assumption was met with silence. When he looked up, he saw Sancha smiling at him. Even though her eyes glimmered with a nostalgic sadness, she seemed genuinely touched.

"You are sweet to remember this part of me," she said, her voice almost lost on the wind. She put their picnic basket aside and looked out onto the city, her eyes far away and thoughtful. "You are right: Hebrew weddings are different from gentile ones. But the people of Paris must not know that I really am part _judía_. They may expel me."

"I know," Quasimodo said, reaching for her hands. "But if there's any tradition you want to follow in private, I want to help."

"_Ay, mi alma…_" Sancha leaned over and planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek. "To put yourself at such risk, you are a good man. But if you could have heard the conversation between my mother and father about my future wedding…" She laughed and shook her head. "They could never agree if I would be married by a priest or a rabbi. Until…"

"Until?"

"They decided that I would choose," she finished, a triumphant smile tugging at her lips. "They said if I chose to marry a Sephardi man, I would have a Jewish ceremony, and a Christian one if I married a Catholic. My parents made their own decisions about their marriage, and so they would let me make mine.

"And in the end, I chose you." Sancha moved closer to him and leaned her forehead against his, her soft gaze holding his. "That means I wish to be married here, in Notre Dame, with my friends as witnesses. I wish for a simple wedding and the freedom to live as your wife for many, many years. Traditions are nice, but that is all I truly want."

Quasimodo returned her smile and whispered, "Me too." He wrapped his arms around the woman who he would soon marry and kissed her, his heart so full he was afraid it would burst. Sancha curled up against him, deepening the kiss until they nearly became lost in each other.

When they broke apart, Sancha's eyes were glassy, but her smile was wide. Quasimodo cupped her face and said, "I love you, Sancha."

"I love you too. More than anything, Quasimodo."

She shifted and leaned into him, her head against his shoulder, her arms around his torso, and her gaze on the skyline of Paris. There were no clouds above the rooftops, and the wind whistled a melodic little tune as it skipped through the city. Sancha drew in a deep breath, her body warm against Quasimodo and her spirit light.

"Finally," she whispered to herself. "I am home."

* * *

**Wow, it's done... It's really done...**

**What can I say to you, dear reader, except thank you so, so much for reading to the end. Writing this has been such a journey, and I'm so happy that you decided to join me! Thank you, as well, to all of the people who reviewed and commented on this fic - You didn't have to do that at all, but you did, and as a writer, I can't tell you how happy those messages made me :)**

**Well, Sancha's and Quasimodo's story has finally come to a close, and I will miss them dearly. But I'm really glad I got to tell this story, and I'm also happy there were people out there who were interested in the little Jewess who came from Toledo and fell in love with our favorite bell ringer.**

**Keep an eye out, dear reader, because there will be more stories in the future. I can't promise I will write strictly for this fandom, but I fully intend to create more stories and more characters that, hopefully, you will enjoy.**

**Until next time, my dears, take care :) **


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